Chapter 15

Traff didn't stop running until he was at least half a mile from the camp. His breath was ragged in his throat and his leg muscles burned, but he knew he needed to put as much distance between them and Nah Am as possible. Now he got to a small open glade by a fast flowing stream and gently he placed his semi conscious burden down on the ground.

Starsky rolled over onto his side, his eyes still tight shut as Traff fished in his pants pocket for his knife. He slit the rough hemp rope that bound the brunet's arms so cruelly behind him and unwound it gently, wincing when the rope was caught in the deep and bloody furrows caused by the tightness of the bonds. Starsky groaned softly as the circulation started to flow again and started to mumbled under his breath

'S Starsky, David Michael, Corporal serial nnnnumber 231-51-3155….'

Traff ran his hand over his friend's brow.

'Sssh Curly. C'mon buddy open your eyes, I gotcha, I gotcha now. You're safe. You're gonna make it' he took a bloody wrist in his hands and gently started massaging some life back into it, but the simple action made Starsky flinch back, pulling at his arm as he mumbled his name and rank again.

Traff sat back and assessed the damage. Starsky's hands and feet were bloody, infected messes, each finger and toe swollen, red and hot to the touch. Blood and pus oozed through other dried residues which seemed to have been caked there for some time. The brunet's chest and back showed the outline of every rib and spine bone as the skin stretched taut over them. Traff assessed that he must have lost at least 15 or 20 pounds. Sores, cuts and bruises decorated the skin and added their own bloody patterns to the brunet's body. What appeared to be burns also festered over the chest and back and Traff cursed, angrily wiping away tears of frustration that flowed down his cheeks.

Tenderly he picked up the emaciated body and held it close, rocking it like the kind lady at the children's home used to rock him.

'Hey Curly. Can ya hear me? Its me Traff. I gotcha Chief an' I aint gonna let ya go. Can ya hear me, huh?' he looked down into the handsome, though bruised face and slowly the indigo eyes opened a little and seemed to focus on him.

'There you are! S'me Traff. I got ya now. Not leaving without ya' Traff whispered.

Starsky's face cracked into a painful smile. 'Traff?' he croaked.

'Uh huh. In the flesh. How're ya doin Chief?'

'Didn't think……make it' the injured man forced out. It cost him and he panted with exertion, coughing painfully.

'Well ya did 'n' I'm here now. We're gonna get ya outa here to a nice hospital. All those cute nurses an' a nice soft bed'.

'Yeah? Sounds….nice' Starsky breathed, his voice no more than an echo on the still air.

'Curly, where's Merry an' Tugs?' Traff asked softly, already braced for the answer.

A look of pain flashed across the other man's face. 'Dead…..bastards….killed 'em'. The thin body squirmed. 'Couldn't stop 'em. They…..' he was stopped by another bout of coughing that robbed him of his breath and Traff held him and rocked him until the spasm had passed. He could feel the heat radiating from his friend and knew he had to do something in order to make Starsky fit enough to travel. Fit as Traff was, there was no way he could carry him all the way.

He lay his friend down and rooted through his kitbag for the supplies he'd brought from the camp, bringing out bandages, water and some rations. Ripping a piece of gauze he dipped it into the stream and started dabbing at the myriad of cuts and bruises, at a loss what to try to deal with first. He was pretty sure that none of the cuts were life threatening, but he felt that Starsky had a fever and it was probably as a result of pneumonia or similar. The hacking, bubbling cough told him that the brunet had a chest infection at least. And whatever he had in his pack, it didn't include IV antibiotics. But he was trained, as they all were, as a field medic and so over the course of the next couple of hours, he set to, to wash, clean, treat and bandage as many of the wounds as he could. He winced again when he examined the brunet's fingers and toes noting that all the nails had been removed. And even with his strong stomach, at one point he had to crawl off to one side to be sick, the sight and the smell of the infected flesh compounded with the fact that this was his friend being too much even for a trained soldier..

All during that night, after he'd finished with his triage, he fed Starsky powdered quinine and aspirin and frequent small drinks of water. He knew that any more than that would make the brunet even sicker, and only tiny amounts of food would be appropriate. Starsky slept fitfully, plagued by nightmares and hallucinations brought on by his fever but by morning, dressed in Traff's spare clothes and with his various sores tended to in a fashion, Starsky started to awake and look around him.

The fever still burned in him and he seemed to view the world through a ripple of water, the trees wavering around him, but he recognised his friend properly now and tried to get himself into sitting position.

'Traff?' he whispered to the snoozing man.

The young soldier was instantly awake.

'Curly. How're ya feelin?'

'M'fine….' He looked at his bandaged hands and feet. 'Well, maybe not fine, but…..' A single tear forced its way out of his eye and fell unchecked down his cheek. 'I've never been more glad t'see someone. You're beautiful man!'

Traff snorted. 'Now I know you're feverish! But I'm glad I got you too Chief. I just wish I could'a got here sooner'.

'Knew you'd never give up' Starsky said, his eyes closing again. Even talking hurt, but it felt so good to be with his friend again, Traff's hand gentle on his body instead of the harsh blows and maltreatment he'd come to expect. 'Oh shit, look at me cryin' like a baby……I was so scared Traff. So fuckin' scared. Every single day. An' then when….when Tugs 'n' Merry….well…..i guess I just wanted t'die too, but I didn't tell 'em nuthin'.

'Nah, but I bet ya really pissed 'em off' Traff snorted to cover up his own tears. Jeez, some rescue party he turned out to be! He pulled himself together. 'D'ya think you can walk some?' he asked seriously. 'We need to get as much distance as we can between you an' that freakin' General'.

'I'll drag myself if I have to' Starsky grunted, although when he tried to get up, the pains in his feet made him up chuck into a nearby bush. 'Shit!' he cursed, wiping his mouth with the back of his bandaged hand. 'Guess they did a real job on me huh?'

'Yeah, you're one helluva mess! Here. Lemme help ya' Traff said, holding out a hand as he helped Starsky to his feet.

The brunet stood uncertainly, the world spinning around him as he swallowed down the burning bile in his throat. He was determined not to throw up again, and equally determined that he wouldn't have Traff carrying out of the jungle. Cautiously he took a faltering step, riding out the pains in his toes and feet, then another. He stopped and grinned. 'Won't win a race, but I'm good t'go'. The brave words covered up the fact that he felt insubstantial, light headed and as though even breathing was too much of an effort.

Traff understood and gathered up his kit, stuffing everything back into his bag before standing next to his friend. 'Sorry I didn't bring a pair of boots for ya. Can you manage?'

'Don't think I could get boots on. Yeah, I'll handle it. Lead on' the brunet grunted, looking at his newly bandaged feet. The blood was already seeping through the white gauze, but the thought of putting anything rigid like boots on his feet was more than he could bear. He shuffled another step, sweat beading on his brow as he started to follow.

The going was slow. The heat in the jungle was overbearing and oppressive, sapping at their will and draining their bodies dry. Starsky had very little energy and despite an almost superhuman will, he needed to stop every few hundred yards to rest, have a drink and ride through the pains in his feet and the rest of his body. By midday that first day, they'd covered barely a mile and Starsky's hair, which had grown longer since his incarceration, was plastered against his scalp and his breath was coming in ragged gasps, interspersed with periods of hacking coughing. Traff saw how grey his friend was and called a halt.

'We've made good progress' he lied as he sat down besides his friend. 'Ya just need to rest'. Maybe we can wait till evening, then do some more'.

Starsky opened one eye and regarded the other soldier. 'You're a shit liar Trafford. We'll never make it out at this rate. You should go on. Leave me here and come back when you have help'.

'Up yours Curly! I haven't gone AWOL just to leave you in the middle of this shitty place. We rest now, wait till evening, then we go on again huh?'

'You went AWOL? I thought Sharpe had sent ya. He did didn't….' Realisation hit and he cursed weakly. 'The yellow bellied bastard! He was just gonna leave me to die? Shit!'

'You can kill him when we get back. Give ya some goal to work for huh?' Traff grinned.

'Goal? Don't need him as a goal. Just need to get outa this hell hole'.

'I know. Rest up now an' we'll try again tonight huh?' Traff muttered, watching Starsky's eyes close despite his anger. The eight weeks of incarceration had taken such a toll on his young body. He'd need more than a couple of days of recuperation to get fit again.

'Whatever you say Pal' Starsky mumbled, leaning his head back against the tree trunk at his back. He hadn't the strength to argue. He had barely the strength to breathe. He felt responsible for the lives of Tugs and Merry and he so desperately didn't want Traff to die because of him too. But he'd reason with the curly haired soldier later. Right now, he needed to rest.

By nightfall, the brunet's body had seized up so that he could hardly move. His hands and feet were on fire and he felt as though he had a red hot band of metal around his head. Each time he blinked, fireworks exploded behind his eyeballs and when he swallowed, his throat was dry and sandpaper-like.

Traff was busy lighting a tiny fire and had heated some soup in a foil packet. He handed it to Starsky, but the injured soldier couldn't hold it in his damaged hands. Instead, Traff, held it and fed it to the brunet, a spoonful at a time and then held a cup while Starsky drank. During the afternoon, it had once again rained and now the bandages on Starsky's feet were sodden and muddy, the fabric rubbed at his already painful toes, but he refused to complain. Being out of the camp and in pain was far preferable to remaining a prisoner. He'd cope.

Traff helped him up and together they staggered on through the darkness, the jungle being almost pitch black in areas where the trees were at their thickest. They stopped several more times before morning, but by then Starsky's reserves of energy were depleted and he was leaning so heavily on Traff that the soldier was more or less carrying him. They ploughed waist deep through another muddy river and as Traff pulled Starsky out of the water and up the bank, he knew he too needed to rest.

He managed to get them both into the cover of the trees and laid the semi conscious man down on the ground. Starsky barely moved now and Traff knew that he had to make something more than a rudimentary camp if the injured man was to stand any chance of getting out of the jungle alive. He took a piece of cord from his backpack and slung it tight between two trees about 5' apart. Taking a thin but durable sheet of dark green plastic from his pack, he draped it over the rope to make a rudimentary tent, anchoring it down with fallen branches. He gathered fallen leaves and some ferns to make a soft bed of sorts and then stood back to inspect. Not exactly the Hilton, but at least the bivouac would keep the rain off them. He dragged Starsky inside and lay him down on the soft ferns as he made a small fire. The yellow flames instantly made the place a little more cheerful and gave Traff a chance to assess their situation. The soldier knew that the naked flame would be easily seen by anyone who was looking, but he had the impression that this part of the jungle at least was devoid of the Vietcong.

With a sigh, Traff sat down wearily. He felt as though he'd been ploughing through the dense vegetation for years and despite the fact that he'd found his buddy and rescued him; despite the fact that Starsky was right there by his side, he couldn't ever remember feeling so alone. He took off his boots and socksseeking a small measure of comfort from maybe treating himself to dry clothes - or at least getting out of his wet ones, when the breath hitched in his throat. He looked down and stared in horror at the fat black leech which had attached itself to his leg. He shuddered, repulsed by the slimy creature and took one of the glowing embers from the fire. Touching it to the slick black body it contracted and let go, plopping down onto the ground where he stomped on it with an obscene squelch. A nasty thought occurred to him and gently he started to undress the unconscious soldier next to him, bracing himself for seeing one or two of the leeches on Starsky's legs. As he worked the trousers off he saw three of the black monsters on the brunet's upper thigh on the inside, but as he moved the boxers to one side he recoiled at the sight of a whole mass of them attached like a black quivering ball the Starsky's scrotum and the underside of his penis.