Lost and Found SJH chapter 2
St. John whispered frantically to Mace, "We gotta find a way out of this. String's gonna blow a gasket when he comes back and can't find us!"
Mace looked at him in disbelief and whispered back. "If you find a way, let me know. If you haven't noticed, we're outnumbered at least 3 to 1. And right now I'm a little more worried about what these bastards are gonna do to us!"
St. John had to agree, looking around the clearing. There were 7 Americans, some injured, including himself – when he'd fallen in the stream, it had been because a bullet had grazed his leg through the water. If the water hadn't slowed it down, he'd be in a world of hurt right now. There were at least 20 VC, maybe more. And every soldier in Vietnam knew that VC were not above butchering their prisoners just for sport. He really didn't want String to come back and find him beheaded with his own genitals stuffed in his mouth or something.
He had no choice but to submit as the enemy soldiers moved amongst the Americans, thoroughly and efficiently stripping them of anything that could be used as a weapon. Then their hands were bound tightly in front of them. St. John tried to flex his muscles, hold his hands a little bit apart to keep the bindings loose, but the man tying him noticed and backhanded him across the face.
"No tricks!" the man grunted in heavily accented English. "Try again, rope around neck!" St. John subsided. He didn't know whether he'd just get a noose around his neck to lead him by, or if he'd be strangled or hanged. As bad as it would be for String to come back and find him missing, it would be worse for the kid to come back and find him dead. The enemy soldier jerked the bindings around St. John's wrists tight to the point of pain, then tied him into a line with three of the other men. Mace was being similarly roped into a line of three with the remaining Americans.
Then they were off and walking, prodded along by gun butts and occasionally muzzles. And walking. And walking. In the middle of the line, St. John couldn't tell if they were following a visible trail or if the VC soldiers just knew their way among the trees. There was no way for him to mark their path or note landmarks in any kind of sequence. It was damned hot and muggy, too. While their dark captors seemed to be completely unfazed by the temperature, St, John and the other Americans were sweating heavily, swearing softly as the sweat they couldn't wipe off stung their eyes.
After what felt like, and St. John was sure actually was hours, their captors allowed them to stop and drop onto the ground. Still heavily guarded, they were released from the rope line long enough to get drinks from their canteens, and each man had a ball of sticky rice about the size of a ping pong ball handed to him. As St. John bit into his, he almost gagged at the fishy, salty taste. There must have been shreds of dried salted fish mixed in with the rice. And then they were up and walking again, until they finally reached a road. Here they were allowed to sit again and allowed more water and rice. At that point St. John would have happily greeted a can of C-rations, even the universally despised ham and lima beans that were always the last ones left in the case. His hands were swollen and tingling as the ropes had been tied so tight.
Two of the Vietnamese equivalent of troop trucks arrived. St. John and his line of men were bundled into one, along with about half of their captors; Mace into the other with the rest. No chance to escape here; the captives were forced onto the floor in the center of the truck bed while their captors ringed them. The trucks set off, bouncing and jostling along the rough road. With the canvas coverings over the beds, there was no way to tell which direction they were going, although the road where they'd been picked up ran roughly north-south. Exhausted, the captives found themselves leaning against each other and falling asleep despite their predicament.
St. John was kicked awake as the truck stopped. It was dark out, and he had no idea how far or how long they'd travelled. The four Americans were dragged out of the truck and thrown into a bamboo cage with other prisoners, who were filthy and emaciated. Many of them seemed listless. The more alert men amongst them helped free the hands of their new cellmates. By this time St. John's hands were completely numb and swollen from the tight binding. The man who took the ropes off said, "Tried to keep the ropes, loose, huh? They did the same to me. Keep your hands propped up on your knees, as high as you can; it'll help with the swelling. And start moving them as soon as you can." St. John nodded wearily.
"Can you help me get a drink?" he asked . "Can't hold the canteen." The other soldier assisted him as he drained the last of the water. St. John's hands were beginning to tingle and burn; any touch or movement of them spread pain like fire along his nerves. All he could do was wait it out, and be grateful that the bindings hadn't been so tight they'd caused permanent damage. To distract himself, he started asking the other man, whose name was Mike, about the routine of the camp. Mike told him that he could expect to be interrogated for several days, how food and water worked, and then said, "We're here for the long term. I've been here for over 6 months already. Some of these guys are pushing 2 years."
St. John nodded. "I don't intend to stick around long," he said. "I'll find a way out."
Mike laughed at him. "No one's managed it yet, hotshot," he said dismissively. "You'll only make things worse for yourself if you try. Might as well wait it out."
St. John thought, No way. I'm not giving up that easily. String and Dom don't know where I am or what happened to me; I'm not going to let that go on any longer than I have to.
Several days later, recovering from yet another interrogation in which he'd refused to tell his captors anything, St. John suddenly realized that he hadn't seen Mace since they'd been separated at the trucks. He couldn't remember if both trucks had been at the camp the night they were brought here or not. After watching as groups of prisoners were brought out to walk in slow circles for a few minutes each day, he determined that Mace wasn't there. He wondered if he'd ever see his friend again.
It was months later when St. John found his first chance to try to escape. The camp had been swept by a torrential downpour and heavy winds that had gone on and on. St. John thought it might have been one of the cyclones that came in off the ocean. The bamboo stockade surrounding the camp had been undermined in several places, and gangs of soaked, muddy, miserable captives were dragged out and made to repair the damage. One of the men in St. John's group had suddenly dropped to the ground, screaming and convulsing in pain. St. John took advantage of the sudden disruption to slide out under the section of fencing he was supposed to be filling in the gap under and took off, running for his life. It was still heavily overcast, and it was nearly impossible for him to determine which way he was going. For now , he was just going to keep going until the skies cleared and he could use either the sun or stars to figure out which way was south. Because regardless of where he currently was, south was where the Americans were, of that he was sure.
He managed to stay free for almost 36 hours before he was found and dragged back to the prison camp. He was dismayed to realize he'd never gotten more than about 5 miles away. And after he'd been thoroughly beaten and thrown into a solitary cage so small that he could neither sit upright nor lie down, he wondered whether the attempt had been worth it. He wondered more as a week went by and he was barely fed or watered and never out of the cage. By the time he'd been starved to the point where he couldn't fight his captors when they dragged him out of his cage, when they'd finally dropped him back into the group cage, he'd almost decided it was better to wait it out. Until Mike started ragging on him, saying he'd told St. John that would happen, and he'd be better off waiting until they were freed.
"And what if we're never freed?" St. John asked angrily. "Nobody knows we're here. There sure haven't been any Red Cross folks around checking up on us or making lists of who's here. What if the war ends and nobody ever finds this hellhole? You willing to just disappear? 'Cause I'm not!"
Besides, he'd had a lot of time to think in solitary. He knew String's initial tour year would be over by now, and while he hoped the kid had had the sense to go home to safety, he knew in his heart that the only way String would leave Vietnam without him was in a box or invalided out due to severe injuries. He shuddered as images paraded past him – String in a casket with Dom crying over him, String missing limbs or with eyes dull and vacant due to a brain injury or losing his mind due to the horrors over here. He shut those thoughts down ruthlessly. String was OK, and String was never going to give up looking for him. He knew then that, no matter what was done to him after escape attempts, he was never going to give up trying to get away. He had to get back to String.