by Kim Ekemar
Excerpt from Velvet Nights, Chapter XVI
… Suddenly our machine gun was drowned in the horrible whistling sound of three rockets launched from behind us. Several explosions from grenades followed. The slightest pause between the explosions was filled with scattered gunfire. The noises of war gradually make you either deaf or oblivious to other sounds, like insects and children’s laughter and ringing telephones and the distinctive rumble from a V8. That’s never the case with weapons of destruction. No crack course is more efficient than a few weeks of action. You very quickly learn how to recognize the different sounds the missiles make.
Against the smoke and burning bushes I could see how Charlie ran out from their jungle protection towards us. Some of them were barefoot. They all wore rags for clothes and red or black bandannas wrapped around their foreheads. The noise from the guns ruled the airwaves. Their wide-open mouths could only silently scream out their rage and the wish to kill us, but their fierce faces made their point clear as day.
The slaughter was tremendous on both sides. The VC combatants were desperate for their country and roots and relative freedom, and their own lives didn’t seem important to them as long as they could slaughter a Yankee. They killed one of us for four or seven or ten of their own. They didn’t mind. We have superior equipment and better training in our favor. They have conviction and the jungle marshes and the fact they have nothing else to lose on their side. There is no way we can win this war.
The small clearing where they made their surprise attack on our flank was surrounded with a species of a very low tree with a lot of underbrush. With one month left to the monsoon season everything was as dry as tinder. When the VC had cornered us where they wanted us, they began to set fire to the bushes. Half-naked brown bodies ran boldly with lit torches mocking our machine-gun fire. They ran around us in a large circle and put their torches to the bushes. When Charlie had circled more than half the space with burning bushes, they slowed down on their shooting to save ammo. We were going to be roasted alive and they could see no need for wasting more bullets. I have never been so afraid in my life.
If the option was to be burnt alive, I preferred a bullet in my back. Acting on instinct I ran across the clearing towards my right where no fire had yet been lit. Guns cracked behind me and I heard the bullets hit objects near me. The circle of fire was closing and somebody screamed behind me. I ran and ran and ran until I couldn’t hear the screams and the crackling fire any longer. Leaves and branches brushed my face as I distanced myself from the trap. There was an animal’s burrow that I didn’t see. I stumbled and fell headlong across some immense ferns and hit my head against a tree.
I don’t think I passed out for very long. I woke up to menacing voices that screamed incomprehensible words as they rapidly came closer. I thought that if I didn’t move the VC wouldn’t see me and go away.
… They never found me and I’m one of the few still alive. Twenty set out on the mission, and only three of us returned. There had been 200 or 300 of the VC attacking us. Later Captain Moore told me that Charlie’s losses were of the same order, because their casualties had been estimated at 180 something. He meant this as consolation and a boost to our confidence.
I take his mathematical gibberish as an acceptance that this war is futile and only continued for calculated reasons – be they economic or political.
Transcript from the police interrogation of PBC taped on March 2, 1973 (cont.)
The ropes around my legs finally slackened. My hands were still tied to my waist in front of me, but I could move. How could I get out? The drapes across the windows were ablaze. Lorena had locked the door to the living room. If I didn’t find a way out soon I was going to be burnt alive.
The heat was devastating. Everywhere flames spurted out of the furniture and carpets and other flammable materials. There was a whooshing sound when the curtains in front of the garden window collapsed. I had to take a step back from the sheer heat that rolled across the room. Beyond the flames the windows bulged and looked ready to burst. The intense heat pushed me down against the floor. The same instant the windowpane broke with an ear-shattering sound. I looked up. The cold night air instantly fed the flames to triple height. Without thinking I got up on my feet and ran as well as I could, trailing the chair that I had been bound to. The chair came loose. My legs ached and buckled from sitting immobile for such a long time. I hobbled across the room and threw myself through the window.
My naked skin was cut by broken glass. The roar of the fire filled my ears. I landed softly in the snow outside – cold, welcoming snow that instantly cooled my burns. The icy winter air sucked fire from the window through which I had sailed. It was snowing again. Was the winter never going to end? The fire devoured the flakes. All became one, welcoming, black. Another soft velvet night.
The Ship: Chapter IX
THE FIRE
Stuart sat down on a chair next to the desk where Porfirio had tethered me. For a long while he remained idle with his hands clasped over the rolls of his paunch. He watched me dispassionately. Not once did he shift his expression. The T-shirt with the political statement he wore had large holes where strands of hair protruded. Stuart had not changed his clothes for weeks judging by the filth and the stench. The long hair, hanging to his shoulders in tangled knots, was shiny with grease.
We studied each other until I could not bear to look at him longer. I turned my face against the wall ever so slowly so I wouldn’t vex him. Although less intense than before, the storm kept raging outside. The morning light and the oil lantern Stuart had brought competed for dominion over the shadows. Stuart began strumming his fingers against the chair.
Finally, I turned around and looked him in the eye.
“Please, untie me”, I pleaded.
Stuart did not reply. He went on with his strumming as if I had not spoken.
“Help me, Stuart. Cut the ropes.”
Silence. Stuart nodded subtly in time to the rolls that his fingers drummed.
“What are we going to do?” I went on despairingly in my attempt to catch his attention. “I'm aware that you’re in no way responsible for the deaths of the others, and …”
Stuart rose, grabbed the oil lantern and left the room.
I could see him through the window. He sauntered through the cabin eyeing the chaos. The mess was indescribable. Turned over chairs, broken glass, half burnt playing cards, greasy leftovers, sullied clothing, pools of wine, soot and shards, blood and death.
Stuart spotted a matchbox lying on the floor, partly concealed by one of Oona's garments. He put down the lantern, bent over and picked up the box. By pressing a match to the striking surface and then snap it with his middle finger, he made it fly like a burning missile through the cabin. It landed on one of the few chairs still standing upright. Stuart went over to the chair chosen by the match and sat down.
Half an hour passed. Stuart balanced the chair while he meticulously prepared the matches that he sporadically fired across the cabin. He sat by the wall opposite the window from where I watched him. Not once did he look in my direction. Instead his gaze lethargically followed the arcs of fire the matches made.
Gordon’s trousers, glossy with grease, lay on the stairs to the room where I was held captive. One match fell on the trousers. We both watched the smoke rise as the fire dug its claws into the grease. A flame broke out and spread rapidly along the cloth. The fire erupted and ignited other items. Stuart rocked his chair and absently watched the flames get higher.
“Put out the fire, Stuart!” I screamed, horrified. The flames reached the doorpost between the two rooms. “Hurry, before it's too late! Fetch snow or, or … smother it with Irving's coat!”
He lifted his head and stared at me. I had made him react!
“Hurry, before it's too late! Douse the fire!” I insisted.
He rose and looked around. Irving's coat was on the floor where Porfirio had thrown it after our return to the cabin. Without haste he picked i
t up.
“Faster, Stuart, put out the fire!” I implored him. I tugged at the ropes, but it was absolutely impossible to break free.
Stuart folded the coat over his arm, stretched and yawned. He glanced around one last time, seized the lantern and walked out on deck.
With a terror beyond words I grasped that I too would die. I tore at my bonds but this only tightened the knots further. Through the porthole I saw Stuart put on Irving's coat and turn up the collar. He went over to the rope ladder, climbed across the gunwale and disappeared out of sight.
Stuart had left the cabin door open, and the fresh supply of oxygen made the fire explode. Within minutes the cabin would be an inferno. The old wooden ship would perish in flames and bury my charred remains with all its other terrible secrets. It wasn’t possible that Stuart had abandoned me to let me be consumed by the fire! I pulled myself up as far as I could and again looked out through the porthole.
Stuart crossed the ice with the oil lantern careening by his side. He walked away from the shore towards open water. The light from the lantern disappeared in the mist, and Stuart with it.
Frantically, I made every effort to break free. My eyes and nose stung, the smoke impaired my breathing, the heat scorched my skin; yet my instinct for survival was stronger than any physical hardship. The flames filled the doorway, and both the doorpost and the desk I was lying on began to burn. Mercilessly the fire gobbled everything in its way and suddenly the rope around my feet burst out in flames. There was an acrid smell of burnt rubber when the fire singed my shoes. The heat penetrated the soles and stung my feet like a thousand red-hot needles. The smoke made my eyes brim with tears and I couldn’t see beyond my waist.
The rope burst where it had caught fire between my feet. I tugged at it and realized that I no longer was tied to the desk. Although my hands and feet were still attached to the rope around my waist I was now able to move about freely. I looked around for an exit. It was no longer possible to escape through the main cabin, where the flames licked the ceiling. The only way out was through the porthole.
The porthole was completely round and approximately fifteen inches wide. To force it open I pounded on its locking device. It didn’t budge. Perhaps corrosion and the fact it hadn’t been opened for years made it stick. Nor did the pane budge when I struck it with my fists. Of course, the glass had to be exceptionally thick to withstand ocean gales. The boards beneath my feet were ablaze and any instant my clothes would catch fire. Frantically I searched the room.
Coughing and with stinging eyes, I rambled among furniture and debris in search for some blunt device to break the glass. I groped blindly over the surfaces until I found a long sharp object. I held it up close to my eyes. It was the knife Gordon had used to kill Oona.
I didn’t have time to reflect on this. With all my force I stabbed the knife at the window. It slithered off the pane and the blade cut into my left underarm. The pain made me scream out loud, only to immediately be reminded by the heat that I couldn’t afford to contemplate my wounds. I struck the porthole with both hands held high. The blood gushed from my wound. Holding the knife at a straight angle to the pane, I hacked chips out of the glass. The glass started to crack and for each new blow the fissures became longer.
Finally it broke. Fresh air sucked into the room and boosted the fire. I knocked away the remaining fragments to free the window from glass, then dragged the desk beneath the porthole and climbed onto it. With my arms in front of my head I pressed through the opening. Halfway through I felt my trousers catch fire.
I rolled up into a ball as I fell out of the porthole and made a somersault in the snow on the deck. The snow doused the fire in my trousers. Fresh air filled my lungs and cleared my head. Behind me the flames were leaping through the porthole.
The fire had spread from the main cabin out on deck all the way to the gunwale on my right. Aided by the gales, it closed in on me with incredible speed, like some insatiable creature. It melted the snow to trickles and immediately got a hold on the boards of the deck. Greedily panting for more oxygen, I retreated on all fours towards the stern of the ship. I knew I had to get to the rope ladder. I rose to my feet and leaned over the rail. The wildfire on the gunwale had already reached it – I had crawled past the only exit off the ship. A few moments later it fell burning into the drifts on the ice that sparkled orange in the firelight.
As the pitiless fire got closer it forced me to retreat towards the stern. The entire bow of the ship was now a sea of fire. As I retreated I pressed my damaged arm against the side to stop the flow of blood. I looked over the gunwale and along the hull. There were no means of assistance whatsoever to help me get off.
Below the drifts of snow tempted me with their soft cool beds. Small whirlwinds of snowflakes danced in the gale above. The distance from the gunwale to the ice exceeded twenty-five feet. Somehow the vertiginous span appalled me more than the fire. My giddiness became so intense that I instinctively grabbed the rail and closed my eyes. For an instant I forgot the horrors of the night, forgot about Oona and Irving, even forgot the fire that surrounded me. I breathed deeply and convinced myself that my vertigo was a result of hunger and exhaustion. The air that charged my nostrils was acrid and deficient in oxygen, and made me cough. I opened my eyes and turned around. Tiny blue flames sought their way along the grain of the wooden boards less than ten feet from me. The ship had a slight list that made the melted snow stream towards the stern on the side where I was standing. Particles of soot floated on the steaming air. Suddenly I no longer felt the wind. Whether it was due to the storm letting up, or the fire feeding on all available air, I’m not sure.
The agony of indecision made my thoughts tumble frantically in my chaotic mind. I recalled Stuart’s comment about the fate of Porfirio and Stuart. If I jumped, would the ice break beneath me too? Was Stuart observing the spectacle from a safe distance from the ship? Would the undercurrents also wash me away for an eternal burial beneath the ice or would the flames ensure my cremation?
Would my fate and that of the others ever become known?
I made an effort to collect my wits. Whether I was chosen or the choice was mine I do not know, but there existed only two solutions. The fire came closer. I was afraid to jump.
I backed away from the fire as far as I could, yet I realized that this would only give me a few more minutes of respite at best. On cue the fire started simultaneously in both corners of the stern gunwale. Every other second the fire forced a new flame to break out on the wooden rail, and it rapaciously squirmed closer. Beyond myself with anxiety I looked down at the inviting snow that I knew concealed the treacherous ice.
Suddenly the gunwale gave way. I fell helplessly among spinning fragments of burning wood that raced me towards the waiting ice.
February 27 – 28, 1973
Notes by Paul Crimson
Transcript from the police interrogation of Paul Crimson, taped on March 2, 1973 (cont.)
Excerpts from Velvet Nights
The police report
A note made on February 28, 1973, found on a loose sheet in one of Paul Crimson’s diaries
I woke up in this hospital and didn’t realize where I was. When the nurse entered I glimpsed a uniformed man on a chair outside my door. My head feels like it’s on the verge of breaking in two. I need someone to tell me what I should do and where I should go given a second chance.
All day I’ve had no opportunity to speak with anyone expect for two nurses. One of them was kind enough to go and look for pen and paper. I need to clear my head and my writing always helps me. I’m very confused over the memories that come back in flashes. There was a fire. Many bad things happened.
Transcript from the police interrogation of PBC taped on March 2, 1973 (cont.)
The first of my senses to return was sight. The evening sky above me was full of crackling flames of fire. I had a strange feeling of soft comfort, and then I realized I was resting in a mound of snow. Through an opening in the drif
t I saw the fire, the sparkles, the blue-gray sky and whirling snowflakes. The snow was soft as a feather bed, and I remember I wondered why it wasn’t cold at all.
My ears began to perceive distant sounds. Sirens coming closer. Men shouting at the top of their voices. The snowflakes were flying above and I couldn’t understand why they didn’t melt in the fire. The sound of breaking glass made me aware that yet another window had burst in the heat. I tried to focus beyond the flames and saw that our house was ablaze. Everything I owned was in that house. Something sticky began to trickle down my face, but when I tried to wipe it off I was unable to move my hands.
Then it began to come back to me. Where was Lorena? She had left me tied to the chair, and the candles had fallen over when I had tried to free myself. Xavier? He never returned, he must be dead. Lorena is dead too, I thought, she didn’t return either, did she? Inocencia? Dan? Brett? Vicente? Pringle locked up in the closet? They must all be dead, none of them would return. And now I would be dead too, tied and buried under snow and fire and broken glass. In my thoughts I knew that I wouldn’t be found alive, that there was no hope for my survival.
Then the cold set in and brought me back to reality. I had to make myself known to the men fighting the fire. I shouted, but the sounds of the fire were greater. I couldn’t move my arms so I began to push myself through the drift using my legs. Icy water came in sprays over me. It pricked my skin like a thousand needles and I squirmed to avoid it. I pushed further hoping somebody would see. I screamed in my hope that someone could see me. I panicked when I realized I was only burrowing deeper into the snow. Would I be found only after I had died in the freezing temperatures?
A note made on February 28, 1973 (cont.)
The sounds became more distant. The red air seemed less intense. I was very tired and very confused. Where was everybody? Hadn’t Mr. Rawlins rung the doorbell? Was he dead, too? So much death everywhere. Everybody disappearing. Beware of attachments - it’s the only way to avoid despair or getting hurt. I’m at my wits’ end. I’m so weary it hurts.
