by James Dunn
I knelt and searched under the bed for the pieces of fruit I had stashed. My hand hit something large and unexpected. I placed my face right down on the earthen floor and reached as far back under the bed as I could. Every time I felt something I took it out and examined it. It felt like Christmas.
The first thing I pulled out was an army issue canteen, still in the canvass carrier, and filled with fresh water. Then I found my beloved black K-bar knife. I tested the blade and found it incredibly sharp. Next came my pocket Bible.
As I held the Bible in my hand I felt something sharp and irregular imbedded in the front cover. I stood up and examined it. A huge piece of shrapnel was stuck through the first half of the book. I opened it and found the first page that wasn't mangled was the Book of Psalms. I tossed it aside and dived back to see what else I could find.
My arm stretched back and landed on a bundle of cloth, tied with a coarse brown string. I pulled it out and discovered it was my cammie uniform, both the pants and the shirt. They had been washed and folded. Next to them was an empty backpack.
There were several large fruits called Maniocs. Each one would make a full meal. There were lots of egg rolls wrapped in wax paper, and last but not least the small bits of food I had stashed.
I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the Bible. Psalm 11: "In the Lord I put my trust: how say ye to my soul, Flee as a bird to your mountain."
That must mean that I'm supposed to escape from these Buddhists, right?
But maybe this is the mountain I was supposed to flee to. This was not making much sense.
I read on: "The Lord trieth the righteous; but the wicked and him that love violence his soul hateth."
These heathen Buddhists said that they practiced non-violence. What did the Lord think of all the men I had killed? Would the Lord love these Buddhists and hate me because I killed in a war? The Old Testament was filled with war, slaying ten thousand here and a thousand there. Is war good or bad?
I lay in bed and smiled. I had thought I was being so sneaky about leaving, and every monk must have known all along. And instead of trying to stop me, they gave me the things they thought I needed.
Just then I was sure I heard a noise right outside my door. I sprang up and pulled the door wide. The old cook stood there with a machete. I jumped back and eyed my K-bar on the bed. He could kill me before I got to it.
My first thought was that the girl had sent him to kill me, but he smiled and bowed and handed the machete to me, handle first.
With his bare hand he made the motion of slashing, and pointed to the jungle. In Vietnamese he said, "This will help. You need a sharp one, right?"
I fingered the blade and smiled. Bowing deeply I thanked him. He backed out of the door and pulled it silently shut. Through the closed door I heard him call, "Go in peace!"
I was ready to go at first light. I lay down and slept deeply for the first time in many days.
Chapter 5
I slept fitfully and woke up way before the prayer gong. The sun was still at least an hour from rising as I ate some sticky rice and a chunk of manioc. It took only a few minutes to pack my newly acquired items. I stayed in the room until I heard Truong's gentle tap. "I won't be going to morning prayers," I called through the closed door.
I listened as Truong padded away and the other monks shuffled by my door towards the temple. I allowed an extra five minutes to avoid the chance of encountering any stragglers. I could only hope that the VC girl wasn't up and about.
I straightened the bedcover and put the room in order and made one last check under the bed to make sure I was leaving nothing. Way back in one corner I found another canvass covered canteen filled with water. A silent prayer of thanks went out to the kind soul who provided it. Sometimes all that separated life from death was one canteen of drinkable water. I packed the backpack tightly and opened the door.
The pre-dawn chill was in the air, but my spirits were high. I knew I needed to be on the move, and just the very thought of a journey pleased me. I made my way as quietly as I could to the side gate in the garden, first making sure that girl was not lurking in some shadow.
The monks had a water feature and pond, so I followed the path of the water and quickly found a small stream. Although I wore the robes of the monk, I looked obviously different toting two canteens and a full backpack. Besides, not many monks carried a machete.
The sandals from Truong were fine for walking, but offered no protection for my bandaged foot. And since I was reluctant to follow the stream for fear of encountering an enemy patrol, I tried out my new machete and hacked my own trail, staying always near the gentle gurgle of the stream.
I knew that if I followed a small stream it would lead to a bigger one, maybe even to a larger river.
After nearly three hours of hacking and sweating I paused to wipe the sweat from my brow. I decided to give it another twenty hacks with the machete before a break for lunch. On hack number fourteen I nearly fell into a river. It was swollen with the long monsoon rains and had risen to a flood stage. There was virtually no bank at all. If I had been leaning the wrong way I would have plunged right into it.
I stopped and gazed in amazement. Its muddy green water flowed rapidly towards the rising sun, which meant I could possibly ride it all the way to the sea.
I sighed deeply, noticing for the first time how concerned I had been about the location of the monastery. I knew that the rivers and streams in the central highland near the DMZ either flowed west to the upper Mekong River, or east to the South China Sea. And since I had no desire to head into Laos, my chances of locating either The ARVN or allied forces seemed much more promising if I could travel towards the sea.
After a quick lunch and a drink from the canteen, I hacked some large branches off a couple of trees. With an eye towards keeping myself from being seen, I managed to create a crude raft that could not only float me in relative comfort but hide me from prying eyes. Fashioning the raft took up all of the rest of the daylight and into the evening. As the last rays of sunlight filtered through the heavy canopy of trees I surveyed my work. I sure hoped it would look like just another pile of drifting tree limbs to the casual observer.
My belly was hurting from swinging the machete, and my foot had started to seep blood. I took care to unwrap the bandage and wash it in the cleaner part of the river. Then I rewrapped it and made a tiny fire to heat tea water. It took forever to come to a boil, and I let it hiss for a while, hoping to burn out most of the impurities from the muddy water. I dared not waste any of the precious water from the canteens. After pouring a small amount into the bowl and adding some tea, I emptied the rest into the half-filled canteen, taking care not to pour so fast that it would spill.
Finally I allowed myself to enjoy the tea, savoring every sip. A wave of exhaustion swept over me and I stretched out on the ground. My belly hurt, and my foot throbbed and seeped a little blood. Knowing I had to eat to maintain strength, I unwrapped two of the rolled leaves and ate the stick of rice paste and slurped down the too hot tea. Afterwards I crawled back into the heavy underbrush, curled up in my orange robe and was asleep in minutes.
I slept right near my raft and woke with the first light. By searching down river for a short distance I was able to find a downed tree that I hacked and scraped until it resembled a crude log boat. I hoped to use it not just to keep me afloat, but stow my pack in a relatively dry and secure way. After tying it to the smaller tree, I took off the orange robe, and put on my camouflaged pattern pants and shirt. With one last long look in the direction of the monastery, I pushed the raft into the water and held on. The current grabbed the raft, and moved me quickly east and south. I hoisted myself aboard and let the river take me away.
All day, I drifted. I was afraid to move too near the shore because the area seemed too populated. I steered towards the middle and drifted past many rice farms and some pole huts. I counted nine sightings of locals. Most all wore the traditional black that the Viet Cong had adap
ted as their uniform. Luckily, no one even glanced in my direction.
About dusk I heard the putt-putt of a small boat. I turned my raft so that I was closer to the shore, and the branches of my tree separated me from the middle of the river. After about five minutes of worry, an old boat chugged past. Three men talked idly and paid no attention to my raft, although I could see the ever-present AK-47s propped against the cabin.
When it was fully dark I edged towards a sand bar and grounded the raft. I was nearly too tired to stand, but for sure too waterlogged to stay in the water. I managed to drag the raft onto the bank and up under the trees that lined the river.
I scouted in both directions, but there were no pole huts to be seen. I unwrapped my orange robe and used it as a blanket. After I took a long drink from the canteen I lay back against the log boat and slept without eating.
As was my habit I awakened before first light. I dreamed I heard the gong of the monastery and opened my eyes and was surprised to see that I had made my bed right near a rice paddy. I did my best to conceal the evidence of my resting place and quickly pushed off into the river, fearful that an early morning farmer might see me and sound the alarm. I managed to find some spicy vegetables the monks had wrapped in leaves, and munched on them as I floated.
I closed my eyes for a moment to silently bless the monks as I floated through the countryside. No sooner had I closed my eyes than I heard the soft voice of Beloved Abbot, "Remember to embrace each moment with gratitude, Brother Toby, for the one thing we actually can all control is our attitude."
I shook my head, trying to jar the voices from my consciousness. I needed to keep my wits if I was to survive where everyone I encountered seemed to be the enemy.
I had plenty of time to think as I drifted. I thought about the kindness of the monks. I grinned at the idea that I had tried so carefully to hide my intentions from them. They must have known my every thought. Again the memory of the voice of the Abbot sounded inside my head. "If we remember to listen within, we will discover that there is but one mind, and it remains accessible to anyone who stills his mind enough to hear it."
And so I floated. I floated towards each new moment. I tried to remember to "embrace…” each new scene that unfolded as I drifted. Each turn in the river brought a new and different sight. The people became less frequent, but water snakes seemed to show up more often. Most were poisonous, and I avoided them when I could. I tried to remember to bless those snakes like the monks would, but when one swam too close I just held the K-bar in my hand and held my breath until the snake lost interest and swam away.
That night, I beached the raft right at the first hint of darkness, pulling again under the canopy of trees. I took my time and carefully scouted the area. There was no sign of huts or rice fields, so I returned and made a small fire and sipped a wonderful cup of tea. My evening meal consisted of some rice, two spicy radishes and a manioc.
I wondered how many miles I had traveled from the monastery as I made my bed. I noticed that the river had become much larger through the day, and the flow of the river had slowed, meaning that the countryside was less hilly.
Making my bed in the log boat, I crawled in and pulled the orange robe over my shoulders and slept.
Again, I woke up at first light. I was stiff and sore from the cramped bed in the raft, but very hungry. I searched the pack and found enough wrapped rice and hot radishes to ease the hunger. I drained the first canteen, and made a mental note to boil extra water tonight to refill it. I slipped the orange robe on and stashed the army uniform as cargo for another day on the water, making sure to tie it all securely.
I pushed on the raft to shove it back into the water, but it had become lodged in the sandbar. I had to squat and lift with my legs to free it. The first attempt I slipped, but the second try propelled it into the water. It moved rapidly away from me.
I turned to grab my machete and remaining canteen, and looked directly into the muzzle of an AK-47. A skinny man, about my age or a little older, looked at me with an unreadable expression. His brown eyes told me nothing, but there was just a smattering of freckles across his nose. His black pajamas showed sweat stains beneath the armpits.
He placed the barrel sight under my chin and pressed upwards. I had no choice but to stand erect. I forgot for an instant about my bad foot, and put my weight on it. The sharp pain took me by surprise and nearly made me pass out. I glanced downward and could see that the machete less than two feet away, but he saw it too and moved the weapon and my chin away from it.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see my raft as the current took it away. I remember thinking that everything I owned was on my body or in that raft.
I remembered that I still had the K-bar knife slipped under the sash in the middle of my back. I knew I couldn't grab it before he could pull the trigger, but it was still reassuring to know it was back there.
"Turn around slowly," the man said in passable English. I swallowed and slowly turned, and felt the knife being removed. Now the barrel of the weapon prodded me to move. "To the right," came the terse command. I veered right and found a trail. My foot hurt with each step, but he seemed in a big hurry.
"Step faster or I will bury you right here."
I tried to move faster, but the pain and now the soggy bandage wouldn't allow it. "If I go any faster, I'll bleed to death, and you will have to bury me here. Can't you see my foot and ankle?"
There was no reply, but I thought I noticed a slight easing of the pressure of the weapon in by back.
We climbed a gentle hill and entered into a more forested area. Soon I could see two thatched roof huts. We passed the first and continued towards the second. In front of a red plywood door I was ordered to stop. My captor called out for the occupant, but no one came.
He ordered me to sit down where I stood and produced a rusty key. Holding the weapon less than three inches from my nose, he managed to use his other hand to open a tiny padlock on the front door. He kept his weapon in my direction and disappeared for a moment inside. When he came out he was frowning.
The door of the other hut banged open and two older men appeared. When they saw me sitting on the ground, and the freckle-faced guy pointing his weapon at me, they came quickly over. Both were also carrying AK-47s.
They came right up to me and put their faces real close to mine, studying my face and the orange robe. The smaller one had a large scar that zigzagged across his face from his left ear to a spot under his left eye.
"He's a long nose," The scar guy said. "Let’s kill him now!" He raised his weapon but the freckle-faced guy pointed his own gun directly at the scar. In Vietnamese he said, "Shoot him, and you die with him."
I'm sure that they had no idea that I could understand them, but it sure made me wonder why freckle-face was protecting me. The older one stood impassively to one side. For a minute it looked like a Mexican standoff, but finally scar lowered his weapon. Without warning he spit right in my face. I tried not to react, but could feel the wetness as it seeped down my face.
My captor ordered them both to pack for a long hike. The older one bowed and left, but scar scowled. "Kill him now. At least that will avenge my wife. If you let me cut his throat, then her spirit can be at peace."
"Uncle Ho will deal with the long-nose. Maybe he has information. It is not up to us to decide. We follow orders, right, comrade?"
Uncle Ho was an obvious reference to Ho Chi Minh, and to use his name was to appeal to an unquestioned authority. Scar scowled and made a very cursory bow. "I shall first bury my wife, and then I will join you at the camp." He spit again on my cheek and turned and walked away without looking back. This time I pretended it didn't happen.
The older man returned with a black backpack and his weapon slung across his shoulder. He walked right up to me and kicked me fully in the stomach. I cried out and doubled up in agony. I rolled over and tried to stand, but passed out as the flow of blood stained my robe.
A splash of water in my face
brought me back awake, and in English I was ordered to stand. It took a minute, and it hurt like hell. Freckle-face untied my robe and stared at the purple and red wound on my mid-section, which now seeped blood.
"Get a first-aid kit now!" freckle-face ordered. You have always had a way of making a mission more difficult!" The older guy scowled and ran back to his hut.
Moments later he reappeared with U.S Army field Medical kit. He opened it and found the Iodine and poured it right onto my wound.
I gasped and willed myself not to cry out as the searing bite of the iodine hit. Before I could even catch my breath he covered the wound with a large gauze bandage and was ripping strips of tape and pressing them to my belly. He applied them right across the wound, not to the sides.
He stood and surveyed his work like a first year med student. I held my hand over the wound, trying not to disturb it too much as I struggled again to my feet.
The three of us left the village and walked uphill, away from the river. We trudged along for about an hour, gaining altitude with nearly every step. My foot was a filthy mixture of blood and sweat and dust. Neither of my captors seemed the least bit sympathetic.
At the top of a rise, we paused, overlooking a valley filled with terraced rice paddies. The sun was incredibly hot, my foot was throbbing and bleeding, and my belly was feeling like I'd been poked with a hot branding iron. I thought I heard Truong's voice inside my head. ""Embrace each moment as if it were your last."
I smiled grimly, and thought, "Thanks a bunch, Brother Truong."
Prodded by the barrel of a weapon, we descended to a large hut beside a submerged rice paddy. By the time we got there a crowd had gathered. A large and mangy yellow and brown dog lunged at my bleeding foot, and freckle face slammed the stock of his weapon against its jaw with such force that it yelped and slunk away.
If that dog was someone's pet, they didn't love it enough to challenge my captor's actions. He spoke with authority, and ordered that I be placed in a jail, which turned out to be a room in the large building that had a lock. I was too tired to try to escape anyway, but didn't want to tell them that. I found some old sacks in the corner and fashioned a bed.
