Lost and Found - SJH chapter 3

By late 1973, St. John had been in multiple camps, as his repeated escape attempts had led to him being moved to a variety of camps to try to contain him. It hadn't worked. It might take him months to find the key to escaping each camp, but he never stopped watching and listening. And he never stopped thinking about String and Dom. Each passing month and year made him worry more about his little brother. He knew String, knew that the kid would be blaming himself for St. John going missing, and he worried what that would do to String's psyche, which had already taken two hits from losing their parents and his girlfriend, not to mention the repeated losses here in 'Nam. He also wondered how long String's luck could hold in this war zone, knowing without a doubt that his brother would still be here searching for him if he was able. But it had been over 4 years now that he'd been missing, and he worried that String might have pushed his luck too far by staying.

St. John had also come to the realization that it was unlikely that he would actually manage to ever get back to friendly territory after his escape attempts, especially as he had absolutely no clue where the hell he was or where the closest safe zone might be after all these years. No doubt the battle lines had shifted many times since he'd been captured. He'd become fluent in Vietnamese out of sheer necessity, and the gossip he heard around the camp said that the Americans weren't doing so well and had in fact withdrawn from Vietnam early in 1973. That could have been propaganda, but he couldn't count on that. He'd even heard guards laughing about the Americans believing that all living POWs had been returned to them. Well, he knew that wasn't true, since he and a whole lot of other guys were still here. But it was another source of worry for him about String and Dom. Would they believe that he must be dead since he hadn't been released? He thought Dom might reluctantly accept that, but String never would.

So he kept planning escape attempts. Besides the sheer mental relief of a few days of freedom once in a while, it kept his mind sharp and kept him focused on surviving. He'd noticed that it was the men who'd given up that were the ones who died when the inevitable waves of disease rolled through the camps. He'd been very ill himself once or twice, but had managed to pull through.

Ironically, he'd finally landed in a camp that wasn't a complete hellhole. Oh, it was still bad, but the prisoners were held in actual buildings, which made the monsoon season a much more pleasant experience by comparison to a cage. And they got more reasonable food rations most of the time. Still mostly rice, but at least he didn't seem to be losing any more weight. He'd lost enough already. Add that to the scars covering his body and he knew he was quite the sight. He'd seen worse, though; both in his own experience and in photos of POWs from WWII and Korea. Weakened he might be, but he wasn't down, and this place was giving him a chance to at least hold steady if not recover a bit. But equally ironically, he'd noticed signs of things changing. There were fewer guards, but the ones that remained were the more vicious of them, the ones who tended to enjoy making life for the Americans hell. Maybe they figured that since nobody knew there were still prisoners here, they could make the surviving men their playthings. Well, he was getting out before that happened!

As it happened, his chance came sooner rather than later. One evening there was an almighty BOOM nearby, and St. John felt the concussion of the blast roll through the yard he was walking in circles around. He hadn't heard an aircraft, so he didn't think it was a crash – maybe an armaments depot had gone up or something. In any case, it provoked a scramble among the remaining guards towards the side of the camp where the explosion had come from, and he took the opportunity to sprint for the gate as soon as everyone had left it. A few others followed his lead. He ran as fast as he could, heading roughly east and south, and kept going as long as he could. Then he walked. He alternated running and walking until he was stumbling blindly and running into trees. Then he found himself a cluster of thick vegetation, crawled into it, and fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, his last thought being a wish for no snakes or scorpions.

That became his routine for the next week. Amazingly, there seemed to have been no pursuit, or if there was, they had gone after the other men who'd escaped with him. He walked or ran as long as he could; drank from streams or licked the collected moisture off leaves in the morning, even found a few edible plants. But he knew he was getting weaker due to lack of water and food. He'd bypassed several villages, not willing to risk that the villagers would be sympathetic rather than handing him right back over to the military. Or they might welcome his appearance and use him as a slave. For now, he was staying free.

But his luck ran out, or so he thought. Stumbling along after dark one night, he suddenly stepped into empty space. He didn't know if it was a tiger trap or a cliff, didn't know if he'd land on punji sticks at the bottom and that would be a painful, lingering end to him. What he did remember was a pop and an agonizing pain in his right knee as it hit ground, then a crushing blow to his body as he slumped over rocks. Then everything went black.

He awoke to a hand touching his neck. Reacting instantly, he grabbed the wrist attached to that hand and yanked, pulling the person off balance and on top of himself. Rolling, he pinned them to the ground. It was only then he realized that the person who'd touched him was a young Vietnamese woman. He didn't automatically let go. Women and children had been used against Americans before, either forced to trap them or voluntarily assisting the Communists.

This woman was not putting up a fight. She was breathing heavily and whimpering, seemingly afraid. St. John realized that it was barely dawn and he was along the edge of a stream, with a plowed field on the opposite side.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he asked curtly in Vietnamese.

Her eyes widened as she realized he spoke her language. "I am sorry!" she blurted out. "I came to get water and saw you across the stream, and I wanted to see if you were dead!"

"Well, I'm not," St. John said bluntly. "You planning to change that?"

"No!" she exclaimed. "I didn't want to hurt you. I wanted to see if I could help you or if it was too late!"

"Really?" he asked sarcastically. "I'm an American, and I know damn well I'm in Communist territory."

The woman nodded. "Yes. But we are not sympathetic to the Communists. We hoped that the Americans would get this far, but now they have mostly left."

St. John rolled off her, yelped as his right knee took pressure and a bolt of pain shot up his leg. He didn't let go of her hand, though. Ignoring the pain, he asked, "The Americans really left? I heard that, but I thought it was propaganda."

"It is not," she said sadly. "There are still a few, but not enough to beat back the Communists any more. You were a prisoner, were you not?"

He nodded. "There was an explosion near the camp and I was able to get out. I'm trying to get back to American territory."

"That is a very long way from here," the young woman said sadly. "And I don't think you are walking far on that leg." She pointed down, and St. John swore softly when he saw that his right knee was swollen to twice its usual size.

"Yeah," he agreed dejectedly. "Guess I'm stuck here." He released her arm. "Sorry if I hurt you."

"My grandfather and I will help you," the young woman declared. "We will not turn you over to the Communists. We live in a small village, and they have already taken all of the men and boys who were of age to serve in the army. They don't come here often anymore." She paused. "My name is Ana Van."