My recollection of what happened after the attack is a little confused.

In the panic to get away, I stumbled aimlessly in the rain, lost in a mass of vines and jungle ferns that slapped me as I ran through them.

At one point, I fell into a stagnant pool, and afterward spent several minutes cutting leeches off my body with a hunting knife.

I must have wandered for miles in the downpour, constantly checking and double checking over my shoulder.

In fear of the Commies.

In fear of...something worse.

I stepped forward on a leafy stretch of ground, and my foot went through.

A second later, a sharpened bamboo rod skewers my foot, right through the hard soled boot, exploding through the leather on the other side.

Punji sticks.

One of Charlie's sick little traps.

I tried my hardest to pull free without alerting the enemy, but I screamed.

By the time I was out, I found myself surrounded by a group of yellow faced VC, all armed with Russian assault weapons. I raised my hands in surrender.

The men hog tied me to a pole, carrying me through the jungle like a trophy deer, laughing and joking the whole time.

A few minutes later, and I was thrown into a tiny concrete cell, and they locked the rusted metal doors.

My cage was dark, smelling of rot and piss. A man in a brown two piece suit lay in one corner, apparently dead.

I retreated into a back corner, silently watching the endless sheet of rain falling outside the bars.

Since the VC hadn't bothered to treat me, wincing in pain, I gingerly took off my boot, using torn strips from my shirt as a bandage.

All of a sudden, I hear the man in the suit groaning, and he rolls over and looks at me. Crazy looking Brit, with a big head and an enormous chin.

"Could you please tell the man at the front desk I ordered a double? Because this one's a little small."

I smirked a little, but my foot was still throbbing, and I was in a lot of pain.

I just stared at him. "What's with the tux? Performing for the troops?"

My question seemed to puzzle him.

"When am I?" he said slowly. "What...year is it."

His response answered a lot of unasked questions. More than likely, I had stumbled across a VC brainwashing center, and this man was their last victim.

"Poor bastard," I muttered.

"Wait, no. Don't tell me," the man blurted. "It's 1963, isn't it?"

I only stared.

"1962?"

"How long have you been here?" I asked.

"A few days," he said. "Have you seen my sonic screwdriver?"

I shook my head and said I hadn't. The VC would have turned our pockets out anyway.

"Terrific," he said with a frown.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Oh?" the man replied. "People just call me the Doctor."

"Great," I said. "Then can you take a look at my foot?"