Abandoned: MIA in Vietnam

by Bill Yancey

  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.

  CHAPTER 30

  The NVA guards led Byrnes to a bicycle. To reduce its weight, the Vietnamese had removed the crank and pedals, chain, and fenders. The remainder appeared intact: two wheels, a frame, and handlebars. Hanging from the frame he found four wooden cases, two on each side. The cases held belts of machinegun ammunition. “Do not let the machine fall over,” the guard said. “It will take three men to place it upright again.” Blocks under the ammunition cases kept the frame vertical when at rest.

  Byrnes put his left hand on an extension welded to the left side of the handlebar. His right hand he placed on another metal bar attached to the frame where the seat post had been, behind the first ammunition case. When ordered to, he rolled the bicycle forward. The guard picked up the blocks and put them in a pouch hanging from one of the cases. “Ready?” he asked.

  Nodding, the American pushed the bicycle frame forward. Mud on the Ho Chi Minh Trail clung to the tires. The caravan of supplies joined a newly formed battalion of NVA soldiers marching south. The freshly trained soldiers were all in good spirits, prepared to win the final battle. Most were young men in their late teens or early twenties. Older, veteran soldiers made up their officer corps. The officers were weather-beaten, battle-hardened men, some with terrible scars, remnants of previous enthusiastic, young battalions. All had a faraway look in their eyes. Byrnes thought they seemed battle-weary, aged beyond their years. Many, he realized, had been enduring and practicing the art of war for ten to twenty years and probably represented the few lucky survivors among troops decimated by the war.

  Although not supporting the total weight of the ammunition, as he had the coffin, it took Byrnes as much effort as shouldering the sixty-pound pine box to propel the bicycle forward. The convoy of reinforcements strung out over several miles. In addition there were a hundred-plus bicycles pushed by prisoners and conscripted porters from both North and South Vietnam.

  Guards carried only rifles and their backpacks. They monitored the prisoners and conscripts who might desert, men at the tail end of the convoy. The effort required to march forward left little strength for talking. Conversations were few, and limited to downhill treks. “Where are we going?” Byrnes asked a guard before they started.

  “There’s a pass through the mountains at Mu Gia,” the guard said, after seeing the jade Buddhist icon hanging around Byrnes’s neck.

  “How far is that?”

  “About forty-five kilometers,” the soldier said.

  Twenty-seven miles, Byrnes thought. “How long will it take?” he asked.

  “It’s mostly uphill. Three or four days.”

  The trail at Mu Gia Pass was tortuous. Byrnes saw the rusting hulks of wrecked machines: trucks, motorcycles, artillery, and an occasional tank. Shattered rocks and trees, and the skeletal remains of dead animals – elephants, horses, buffalo, and possibly dogs – littered the sides of the trail near and in bomb craters. The NVA had presumably removed their dead comrades to the cache of caskets left behind.

  Con voi is Vietnamese for elephant, Byrnes realized. He wondered at the term convoy in English and whether its meaning was coincidental to a long line of con voi carrying supplies. A dead elephant lay near the path, stench almost overwhelming. No one had bothered to saw off its small tusks. Visible through rotting flesh, the teeth of the elephant were massive grindstones.

  “One at a time, Con co,” a guard said, holding his hand out to stop Byrnes. He pulled the blocks from the pouch and propped up the bicycle. “Help the men in front of you.” Byrnes joined three men pushing a bicycle loaded with sacks of rice up the steep muddy trail. Once over the crest, one man continued down the far side with the overloaded bike. The two other men helped Byrnes push his bicycle to the top of the hill. Digging his heels in, Byrnes kept the bike from running away, down the far side’s slippery slope. The two men left him and joined the next cyclist.

  On reaching Tchepone, Laos, after weeks of shouldering their cargo along jungle paths, through streams, across rivers, and up and down hills, the battalion commander ordered a rest. Byrnes heard grumbling among the younger NVA soldiers. The soldiers had carried their share of equipment in their backpacks: extra ammunition, RPG rounds, a spare uniform, their rifles, shovels, and bayonets, and three day’s worth of food at a time. They complained bitterly, but quietly, about the political officers. Each cadre officer carried only a pistol and a small shoulder pack with cigarettes and other personal items. They didn’t carry their own food. Instead they invited themselves to eat with different squads throughout the march, lessening the portions each man received. The idealism was wearing off. “Are these men going to march into battle with us?” one young man asked angrily.

  “No,” a combat officer said. He ordered the young man to remain silent on the subject of the political officers, his contempt for the cadre also palpable. “Keep your questions to yourself. The war is almost over. Their time will come.”

  During the rest stop, the battalion repaired trenches and tunnels along the side of the road. They also repaired and re-strung the camouflage netting hanging across the pathway. If American aircraft returned, the soldiers wanted to be prepared. The NVA soldiers inspected and cleaned weapons as necessary. Ambushes by the ARVN, Army of the Republic of Vietnam, remained a possibility. The way south appeared to be through dense jungle, with minimal, if any, paved roads or trails.

  Three months after leaving North Vietnam, the battalion ended its march, arriving in South Vietnam by way of Laos and Cambodia. It stopped, regrouped, and then took its place alongside two entrenched NVA battalions. Officers arranged care for the injured and sick, distributed supplies and ammunition, ordered the building of new trenches and tunnels, and positioned lookouts. Not permitted to light fires to avoid detection by the enemy, the battalion had not boiled its water. Therefore it had had no tea in weeks. Bacteria that caused dysentery lived in the soldiers’ water. The smell of feces was everywhere.

  The other battalions had been in place for four months, awaiting orders to push north and east into Saigon. They were part of a pincer movement the NVA believed would soon crush the ARVN and capture Saigon. Already, Byrnes had heard rumors: tanks and NVA soldiers had crossed the DMZ into South Vietnam; they moved south along Highway 1 from Dong Ha toward Hue. The final battle had begun.

  CHAPTER 31

  Wolfe regained consciousness on a bed in a hotel or motel. A man sat next to him, pulling down the shirtsleeve of Wolfe’s polo shirt. He felt a burning in his right deltoid. The man carefully recapped the needle on a syringe. “Works as advertised,” the stranger said to another man. “He’s awake already.”

  His head clearing r
apidly, Wolfe sat up. He swung his legs over the left side of the double bed, where he faced another double bed, on which sat Drew Jaskolski and a third man. “Where am I?” Wolfe asked evenly, given his anger. He directed his next words at Jaskolski, “I believe kidnapping is a federal crime, asshole.”

  Mirth difficult to hide, Jaskolski smiled. “You weren’t kidnapped, Dr. Wolfe. We arrested you. You have been detained for questioning.” He pointed two fingers to the man sitting to the left of him, a tall man, darkly tanned or naturally swarthy skin color, white goatee, with a shaved head. “This is Peter Narang, my immediate supervisor. He would like to ask you some questions.”

  “We’re not talking until I have a lawyer to represent me,” Wolfe said.

  “Lawyers are expensive,” Narang said. “I can save you the cost of one. You are not going to be prosecuted for anything you say, unless you admit to shooting a court reporter last night. We assume Chief Fulton did that with the weapon you took from him and then used to shoot him.”

  “Why would he shoot the court reporter?” Wolfe asked. “And how did he get out of a locked psychiatric unit?”

  Narang pursed his lips. He said, “We are investigating both of those things. As of right now, I have no answers for you.”

  “What do you want to ask me about?” Wolfe asked, “I may answer some questions, depending on the topic. What could you prosecute me for, anyway?”

  Laughing, Narang said, “As Drew told you, we’d find something. Even if we didn’t get a conviction, we could leave you destitute from legal bills. Your wife is already upset with your financial status, I believe. Imagine her chagrin if you were absolutely broke.”

  “Son of a –” Wolfe leaned forward on the bed and swung a fist at Narang.