Abandoned: MIA in Vietnam (20 page)

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 rapidly, 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.

Jaskolski caught the punch and spun Wolfe to the floor, twisting Wolfe’s arm behind him. “Try to relax, Doc. Peter has a weird sense of humor. His point was you don’t have to pay for a lawyer if you play along and answer some questions.”

Over his shoulder and in considerable pain, Wolfe stared at the two men. “Okay. Let me go. But one more remark about my wife and you’ll wish you hadn’t made it.”

Jaskolski slowly released Wolfe’s arm and helped him stand and then sit again. He held both open hands out toward Wolfe. “Stay calm, Doc,” he said, sitting again on the bed next to Narang.

Wolfe glared defiantly. Words came slowly, tersely, “What do you want to know?” he said, rubbing his shoulder.

“Okay then,” Narang said, as if nothing had happened. “What is your interest in James T. Byrnes, III?”

“I already answered that question for Agent Jaskolski,” Wolfe said. “Didn’t he report my answer to you?”

“Let’s pretend he didn’t.”

“Jimmy and I were in the navy together. We were good friends. I just found out he died,” Wolfe said.

“So why go talk with his mother and sisters?” Narang asked.

“Like I told Agent Jaskolski, I went to express my condolences. And to tell them what a great guy and good friend Jimmy had been to me. Even though I was almost fifty years late.”

“And why go see Colonel Rhodes? You didn’t know him in the service,” Narang said.

“Jimmy’s sister said Rhodes was a POW with Jimmy. I wanted to hear the story myself,” Wolfe said.

“Did you learn anything new?”

Wolfe stared at the men for a minute. “I think I did,” he finally said.

Narang’s left eyebrow elevated slightly. He frowned. “What was that?” he asked.

“Jimmy’s what nowadays we call
a survivor
. Colonel Rhodes thought he died in a bombing raid. I’m not so sure. Somehow, he managed to survive a beating and being thrown overboard. It wouldn’t surprise me if he lived through the airstrike, too,” Wolfe said.

“I talked with Colonel Rhodes myself,” Narang said. “I would be astonished if your friend survived.”

“Then what am I here for? Why are you interfering with my attempts to find out what happened?”

“You applied to renew your passport recently,” Narang said.

“Yeah. So what?” Wolfe said.

“Why?”

Wolfe looked at Narang carefully, trying to keep his anger under control. “My wife wanted me to go to Costa Rica with her. Bird watching.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I have orthopedic problems: knees, back, shoulders. I decided I didn’t want to hike around Costa Rica looking for birds,” Wolfe said. “My son went in my place.”

Narang held his hand out. Jaskolski pulled a passport from his inside coat pocket and laid it on Narang’s hand. Narang handed the passport to Wolfe, who opened it and saw his own picture. As he shook his head at this government intrusion into his privacy and life, Wolfe heard Narang say, “Then you won’t mind that we have removed SE Asia from the places you may visit using your passport. An attempt to go there will result in your arrest.”

“On what charges?” Wolfe asked. “And that’s breaking and entering, in addition to kidnapping.”

“We’ll think of something,” Jaskolski said.

“Why? Is Jimmy still alive? In Vietnam? Or Laos? Or Cambodia? What the fuck is going on, if I should be so forward as to ask in polite French?”

Narang let out a slow sigh. His smile returned. He said, “I don’t imagine your friend is still among the living, Dr. Wolfe. Most MIAs died instantaneously, their bodies blown into so many fragments that they couldn’t be found. We know some were captured, tortured, and killed, or died of wounds or disease in captivity. It’s been forty-six years since anyone saw Byrnes alive. Actuarially, he’d be an outlier, seventy years-old in a hostile, if not deadly, environment. Don’t you agree?”

Wolfe bowed his head. He understood the logic. He didn’t like it, but he appreciated it. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “What’s the harm in finding out? He’s not the only MIA. I think Jaskolski told me there are still 1600, or more, from Vietnam alone.”

Relaxing, Narang allowed his shoulders to droop. He intertwined his fingers around his knee. “You’ve heard of Bowe Bergdahl?”

Wolfe nodded. “The confused kid who left his post in Afghanistan, believing he could somehow reach a peace settlement with the Taliban?”

“Right,” Narang said. “There were a number of servicemen in Vietnam who deserted, for whatever reason. A few may have thought they could affect the course of the war. Some may have been psychotic or drugged – there were a lot of illicit drugs used among the army’s enlisted. Some may have thought they fought on the wrong side. We had reports of Americans siding with the NVA.”

“Jimmy wouldn’t do that,” Wolfe said.

“You understand the Stockholm Syndrome, Doctor?”

“A hostage learning to like his captors? Yeah, I get that,” Wolfe said. “It’s one of the reasons I am trying to figure out exactly what kind of guy Jimmy was before he joined the navy. So far, I don’t see him capitulating like that.”

“Well, Washington doesn’t want the MIAs found. If found, they don’t want them repatriated. In addition, we have new wars going on now. There are missing soldiers all over the world, Doctor. The war on terrorism is world wide. It’s World War III, in case you didn’t notice. And it hasn’t been without casualties or MIAs. If a few are alive and brought home, they might prove to be a huge embarrassment to the government. Like Bergdahl. Or they might be double agents. As for the Vietnam-era MIAs, what should we do with a traitor who comes home fifty years after the war has ended, Doctor? Hang him?”

“We didn’t even hang all the convicted Japanese war criminals after World War II,” Wolfe said. “Why would we hang our own people?”

“I can’t say,” Narang said. “If you want to continue investigating James T. Byrnes, III, I can’t stop you. If you publicize what you find, I promise you, you’ll end up in jail. If you attempt to visit SE Asia, the same is true. Understand?”

“Are we finished?” Wolfe asked.

“No,” Jaskolski said. “We’re not one hundred percent certain that Chief Fulton was responsible for the wounding of the court reporter. We’re examining his contention that someone killed all his friends who participated in throwing Byrnes off the
Oriskany
. If you pursue your investigation, you may be putting your life at risk. We aren’t going to protect you. You’re on your own. Understand?”

Wolfe stood. He thought about throwing another punch at Narang or Jaskolski, but the pain in his shoulder precluded that. “Now, are we finished?” he said.

“Yes, sir.” Narang said. He stood and offered his right hand to Wolfe. The doctor stared at it for several seconds, and then turned away without shaking it. “Jaskolski, do me a favor and drive the good doctor to his car.”