Abandoned: MIA in Vietnam (23 page)

CHAPTER 36

Lieutenant Roh emerged from the bathroom in the first floor apartment with a bath towel around his waist. He dried his hair with a second towel. “My first shower in many years,” he said to Byrnes. “With lots of hot water. Your turn. Find any clothing or money, Con co?”

Roh had found his old apartment virtually unchanged, with the exception of a new recliner and a newer television in the living room. The key he had kept hidden under a statue of Buddha in an outside decorative rock garden remained where he had left it. At the front door had been three days worth of two newspapers, the
Chin Luan
, a Vietnamese paper, and the
Saigon Post
, an English language newspaper. Roh had shared the apartment with another South Korean officer, who worked in intelligence. His tour would have ended long before. They uncovered no sign of the newer occupants, evidently he or they had departed three to four days earlier. The absence of most of the occupants of the apartment building reminded Byrnes of an apocalyptic movie.

Naked to the waist, wearing only the faded, worn, khaki pants given him by the NVA, Byrnes nodded. “In the apartment directly above us, I found clothing that will fit you. The occupants must also have left quickly. I saw family pictures on a bureau. May have been an employee of the Americans. No looters have hit this apartment building, yet. Seem to be some original residents here. Across the hall is a nice lady. She said there was a man about my size who left a week ago. She used to clean his apartment for him. Gave me the key. I found a few pair of trousers, shoes, socks, even three dress shirts,” he said, pointing to two piles of clothing he had dropped on the couch in front of a small television set. “But no money.”

“Some underwear? I’ve missed my underwear.” Roh scanned the room, eyes falling on the broadcast displayed by the black and white television. Tanks rolled past the US Embassy. Crowds waved hands and NVA battle flags.

“Didn’t know if you wanted to wear someone else’s underwear,” Byrnes said, “but I brought three pair for you. Seven pair of tighty-whities for me.” He held one pair up for Roh’s inspection.

“Nice. I prefer boxers, though.”

Byrnes showered. He spent thirty minutes under the running water. He stood under the stream until the hot water began to cool.
No mud, no animals, warm water, soap, heaven
, he thought. Roh rapped on the door. “Are you done?” he asked. “According to the reporter on television, the communists have declared a curfew. Anyone on the streets after 9:00 p.m. will be detained. Or shot. Or both. Looters are subject to arrest and execution without a trial, he said. All former ARVN troops are to surrender their arms at the Presidential Palace.”

“Great,” Byrnes said. “You might want to leave that watch you found in the apartment. Don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Where is that restaurant you bragged about?”

“The watch will help us keep track of time and the curfew. Restaurant’s near the American Embassy off Hong Thap Tu. We can walk it in thirty minutes, provided we aren’t detained by the NVA,” Roh said.

“Yeah, and you said it would only be an hour’s walk to this apartment building, too,” Byrnes said, skeptical of Roh’s time estimate.

“How was I to know the streets would be impassible?” Roh asked. “If you don’t want to go out, there is food in the kitchen and probably more in some of the other abandoned apartments.”

“May as well see Saigon before the communists destroy it,” Byrnes said. He slipped on a pair of thin nylon socks and tried to put his feet into a pair of short engineer boots he found in the upstairs apartment. “Crap.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Shoes are too small,” Byrnes said. He pulled off the boots and then stuffed the socks in them. He had also rescued a pair of worn leather sandals from the other dwelling. “These feel good,” he said after slipping them on.

“Boots and socks fit me,” Roh said, after sitting on the couch and slipping them on. “Thanks. Oh, I found a wad of bills in a hollow book on the shelf. Looks like 100-200,000 Piasters.”

“Is that a lot?” Byrnes asked.

“Depends on how bad the inflation has been over the last six to eight years. A US dollar was worth about 200 Piasters when I was captured in 1967. I guess we’ll find out at the restaurant.” He stuffed the entire wad of bills into his pocket.

Byrnes had no idea where they were, or how to find anything in Saigon. He walked with Roh, speaking quietly in Vietnamese, even though Roh spoke perfect English. Both men had shaved off sparse mustaches and beards after their showers. Byrnes told Roh about the pack of razor blades he had bought prior to leaving the States on the WestPac cruise. He expected a single blade to last him the entire cruise. Roh laughed. The only change in his appearance had been slightly shorter and squared off sideburns and the loss of a small patch of chin hair. “Europeans show their ice age heritage,” he said. “They needed hair to keep warm.”

The walk northwest along Pasteur, led them within a block of the South Vietnamese Presidential Palace. They saw hundreds of NVA processing thousands of ARVN troops. The South Vietnamese presented in various stages of dress. Some were fully clothed in combat fatigues or dress uniforms. Others sat or stood in their white boxer shorts and bare feet. Byrnes saw every combination of clothing between those extremes.

At Han Theuyen, the men turned right and walked past the Notre Dame Cathedral. “That’s probably one of the reasons they surrendered,” Roh said.

“To save the cathedral from destruction?”

Roh nodded. “Saigon has a long history. Cathedrals, pagodas, museums, palaces. Ho Chi Minh would have wanted it preserved, too.”

More vehicles piled with revelers yelling and waving flags drove past the men as they walked northwest again on Duy Tan. “There certainly are a lot of people celebrating for a country that was at war two days ago,” Byrnes said. “Do you suppose they were all communist sympathizers?”

“They’re being pragmatic. You may not realize this, but many South Vietnamese fought with the Viet Minh against the French, and then came south to escape the communists. Their loyalty has been divided for years: pro-independence, anti-communist. If pushed they can display either. Most have recently switched sides in order to prolong their lives, I suppose,” Roh said “I had many a southerner tell me he admired Ho Chi Minh for his resistance to the Japanese, and his ability to throw out the French. Everyone, even the South Vietnamese, called him Uncle Ho. The original southerners, and those who left North Vietnam after the Geneva Accords divided the country in 1954, had no desire to be communists. Especially the Catholics. Entire Catholic hamlets packed up and followed their priests south, marching in the night to avoid soldiers, or taking boats down rivers to the South China Sea and following the coast south. Many died trying to escape. The North Vietnamese communists detained many more. Still, they all admired Ho.”

Byrnes could smell smoke. Behind a ten or twelve foot tall cement wall along Hai Ba Trung a plume of black smoke drifted into the air over the trees that lined the road. “What do you suppose is burning over there?” he asked.

Roh sniffed the air, smelled the acrid odor. “Probably secret documents. Behind that wall is the US Embassy. See that tall building with the flat roof? That’s a helicopter pad. One way to hide is in plain sight. We will walk down Hong Thap Tu, past the embassy. I doubt the NVA would expect fugitives to do that. Keep your eyes open, though.”

Furniture, papers, typewriters, adding machines, wastebaskets, even staplers and paperclips littered the road near the embassy. “Jesus, what a mess,” Byrnes said. “Looters?”

“You wouldn’t think so. If the communists find American equipment in someone’s possession, he’d have a lot of explaining to do,” Roh said, then laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“I figured it out. Some people did ransack the embassy, probably angry that you Americans left without them. And when they got to the street and heard the NVA tanks, they thought better of the idea, dropped their booty, and ran.”

“Makes sense,” Byrnes said.

In the courtyard, behind a huge metal gate that evidently had been damaged by an armored vehicle, sat two Russian or Chinese T-34 tanks. Their crews, men who looked like fourteen and fifteen year-old boys, but in reality were older teenaged combat veterans, lounged on the decks of the tanks or in the grass nearby. Roh waved. Some soldiers smiled and waved back. Byrnes copied Roh’s gesture to the NVA soldiers.

Several blocks off the main thoroughfare, they found a small brick establishment. Huge posters covered the windows and walls in front, advertising for the nearby Pink nightclub. They depicted guitar-toting stars: Elvis Phuong and Anh Tu.

The proprietor of the Viet-My restaurant, a toothless old man with sparse white hair, recognized Lieutenant Roh. “Good evening, Lieutenant,” he said. “I haven’t seen you in years. In fact, I don’t believe I have seen a Korean national since the South Korean Army left in 1973. Are you a correspondent now?”

Initially surprised that all South Korean troops had departed Vietnam, Roh recovered quickly. “Yes. Yes. I’m a foreign correspondent covering the war. I guess now I’m covering the peace,” he said. He pointed to the taller Byrnes. “My friend, Con co, and I thought we’d get one last local meal before seeing about leaving Saigon.” When the waiter, an older man with a bad limp and a withered left arm, appeared, Roh ordered an American meal of steak, vegetables, and baked potato, along with a beer for himself and a Coca-Cola for Byrnes.

While the waiter delivered their order to the cook, Roh pointed to the menu and prices, written in colored chalk on the large blackboard behind the bar. “Inflation has been brutal,” he said. “An apple used to cost about half an American dollar in this restaurant, about 100 Piasters. They were cheaper in grocery stores, of course. Now an apple is worth 1250 Piasters here, according to that menu.” As they watched, the owner of the restaurant erased the prices with a dish rag and added 1000 Piasters to each as he rewrote them. “Paper money is worthless in a time of crisis, Con co. Probably one of the reasons the most recent occupant of my apartment left it behind. It would of absolutely no value wherever he went outside Vietnam.”

When the waiter returned with their food, Roh pulled the wad of bills from his pocket. “I think I’ll pay you now and give you your tip while I can still afford it,” he said. He thumbed through the bills, then shook his head and handed all but 1000 Piasters to the waiter. “Easy come, easy go,” he said in English.

CHAPTER 37

A surprise awaited Wolfe when he drove in the front gate at The Cascades, part of World Golf Village. Teddy, the guard, had called him minutes before. Wolfe had dutifully pulled off the highway and answered the call. A man waited at the guard shack for Wolfe. Ted said the man wanted to talk to him about a mutual friend.

Parking his Prius along the side of the road, Wolfe walked over to the gate, where the man waited in his vehicle, a late model BMW sports car. The convertible top lay open. Within the shade of the guard shack, the man sat inside his vehicle smoking a cigar. He wore an Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts similar to Wolfe’s favorite shorts. Wolfe couldn’t see the man’s feet, but he assumed he wore sandals, if he wore anything at all.

Wolfe stood next to the driver’s side of the car. “I’m Addison Wolfe,” he said to the heavy-set stranger with a full head of gray hair. “You want to talk with me?”

“Dr. Wolfe,” the man said. He pushed the driver’s door open and stood. Grabbing Wolfe’s right hand, he shook it with a firm grasp. “Is there a place where we can talk?”

“You don’t look like an assassin,” Wolfe said. “Who are you and what do you want to talk about?”

“Pardon me? Oh, I’m George Crouch,” the stranger said. “My friends call me Zorro, although now I look a lot more like Sgt. Garcia.” He patted his midsection. “That was my call sign in the Navy. I flew F-8s and F-4s in the navy.” He chuckled. “Can we chat about J.T.? I talked with his sister yesterday after I heard about his mom. We keep in touch. J.T. and I were roommates during Plebe Summer at Annapolis. You were kidding about being an assassin, right?”

“I wish,” Wolfe said. “Follow me to the club house. That’s a fairly public place. On warm summer days there are usually a number of people around the pool. And we can get drinks if you want.”

“Okay.”

Wolfe told Teddy to let the BMW through the gate. Crouch followed Wolfe to the clubhouse and, after parking, joined him at one of the tables around the pool. Wolfe had picked a spot between the indoor and outdoor pools, relatively isolated from the crowd around the grill and bar. “Want a beer?” he asked Crouch.

“Pepsi’s fine, Doc,” Crouch said. “I’m flying later today.”

Wolfe retrieved two Pepsis from the concession stand. He set one in front of Crouch and sat with his back toward the pool. “You mentioned flying later,” he said. “What do you do, Mr. Crouch?”

Crouch took a sip of his Pepsi. He said, “Call me George, Doc. I work at the Cecil Commerce Center, what used to be Cecil Field until the navy closed it. A friend of mine buys F-5s and T-38s from countries all over the world. They are being retired from most air forces. Then he rebuilds them and sells them to rich civilians who want to fly supersonic jets. I’m his test pilot for the refurbished aircraft. They only cost one to two million once he rebuilds them. Want one?”

“Can’t afford one. I always wanted to fly,” Wolfe said, smiling. “My uncle was a military pilot. Flew F-86s in Korea. When I graduated from medical school, I applied for astronaut training. Didn’t work out.”

“I’ll call you next time we test a T-38. Those are the two-seaters. Be happy to take you up with me,” Crouch said.

“Don’t know if I’d go,” Wolfe said. “I’ve gotten used to being Earth-bound. They let you do that at your age?”

“At my age, I’m expendable. And I have a lot of experience that comes in handy occasionally. If you change your mind, let me know,” Crouch said. “Tammy said you were on a mission to learn more about J.T. She said you and he were buddies on the carrier.
Oriskany
, right? Never flew off her. Oldest one I was on was
Midway
. Anyway, since I live close by in Ponte Vedra I thought I’d stop by. Why are you worried about assassins? Tammy didn’t mention that.”

Wolfe told him about having to shoot Chief Fulton, and the black sedan earlier in the day. He laughed, “Some poor lost Japanese tourist, afraid to eat the local food. My paranoia, I guess.”

Crouch sipped his Pepsi and then said, “So Fulton said these guys threw J.T. overboard? That’s disturbing, even more disturbing than the navy believing he had committed suicide. And Colonel Rhodes shared captivity with him for about two years? Crap. What a way to go. Bombed by your own countrymen.”

“He seems to have survived in places most of us would have died,” Wolfe said. “Any inkling of that ability as a plebe?”

“I don’t know about the rest of plebe year, because we were no longer roommates or in the same company. He showed real resilience first and second sets during Plebe Summer. He had
Reef Points
memorized before the rest of us. All the famous quotes by presidents, naval heroes, and others. So much trivia. He knew the phonetic alphabet and Morse code before we did, too. Being a military brat may have given him a head start on some of it. Either way, he was a smart guy. Resourceful. You wanted him as friend. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for you then. You didn’t want him as an enemy, either.”

“Why?” Wolfe asked.

Shifting his weight in the chair, Crouch said, “I saw him steal food from meals and take it to friends who were being harassed by upper classmen in the mess hall and had no time to eat. I also suspect him as being the guy who sabotaged some upperclassmen, got them demerits for being late to formation, rooms out of order, etc. He could break into any room. He set traps for them, too. Water balloons. Burning bags of dog crap. All sorts of stuff. And never got caught.”

“Anything else?”

Crouch laughed and said, “He could pass for a Filipino mess boy, and frequently did. I know of two occasions when he left the academy and went downtown Annapolis dressed as a civilian. I guess that’s where he found the balloons.”

“Pete Aikens said they called him Cato, after Peter Sellers’s sidekick in the movie
Pink Panther
.”

“You only did that once,” Crouch said. “He never forgot an insult. He never showed his feelings, either. Sometimes you didn’t know you had slighted him until he paid you back. And although you couldn’t prove it, you knew it when he retaliated.” Briefly, Crouch admired the granddaughter of one of the Cascades residents as she walked past their table. He continued, “A friend of mine, also a high school classmate from Columbia, South Carolina, was a bigot. Couldn’t stand blacks or foreigners. They were in the same company during the academic year. One day he insulted J.T. Starting the next day, none of his computer programs ever ran correctly on the IBM 360 on which they taught us Fortran. That was back when we used punch cards. Every time this guy ran a program, the computer would go into an infinite loop and spit out his punch cards. Even the professors couldn’t figure it out. They finally had to give him a pseudo ID. I know J.T. did that.”

“He admitted to it?”

“Never,” Crouch said.

“Sounds like he thrived during Plebe Summer,” Wolfe said.

“He made some mistakes, and paid for them, too.” Crouch said. “One of the upperclassmen happened to pop into a plebe’s room late one night. J.T. was in the room without authorization, helping the guy polish his shoes. He heard the firstie open the door and slipped into the closet. The upperclassman started to harass the other plebe about failing inspection that morning because he hadn’t folded his underwear correctly. He flung open the closet door to see if the plebe had remedied the deficiency and found J.T. standing there.” Crouch grinned. “I can still see the smirk on the upperclassman’s face when he told us about it later. They fried him, of course. Gave him a shitload of demerits. He marched them off with his M-1. J.T. had looked at the firstie innocently and said, ‘Going down, sir?’”

“That’s funny,” Wolfe said.

“Yeah, it was,” Crouch said. “You know the academy is a perverse place. A common saying is IHTFP,
I Hate This Fucking Place
. And most of us stayed because we were afraid to quit and face our family or our peers. Some of us feel J.T. had more balls than we did, because he went home to face his dad, a Captain in the navy at the time. I certainly would not have.”

“Don’t know that I see your point, but I’ll take your word for it,” Wolfe said.

“I guess it’s similar to combat,” Crouch said. “Sometimes you do things more because you worry about what other people think than you worry about the consequences. Maybe marriage is like that, too.” He chuckled. Thinking about his own marriage, Wolfe laughed. “So what’s next, Doc?”

Wolfe told Crouch about the CIA and their prohibition on his travel to Vietnam. “Their attitude makes me even more tempted to find my way to Southeast Asia. I know the odds are long that he could have survived, or that I’ll find him if he did. Just the same, I feel obligated to try. I have led a comfortable life since I left the navy. Maybe not as luxurious as some would assume since I was a doctor, but very pleasant compared to his existence. I wouldn’t want to miss the chance to help him if I can. Do you suppose there was a chance Jimmy could have become a traitor? It’s one of the possibilities the CIA mentioned.”

“One of the more famous quotes we memorized plebe year at Annapolis was:
non sibi, sed patriae.
The class of 1869 inscribed that on the chapel doors. J.T. personified those words.”

“What does it mean?” Wolfe asked.

“Not self, country,” Crouch said.

“Yeah, I don’t believe he’d turn his back on his country, either.”

Crouch stood. “I’ve got to go, Doc. Have to preflight an F-5 and test fly it. You let me know if you need transportation or a retired navy fighter pilot for some reason, even sneaking into Vietnamese airspace. I know my way around the sky in what used to be North and South Vietnam, also Cambodia and Laos.”

“I will,” Wolfe said.