Chain of Command

7

After two days in camp, I'd uncovered far more than I'd ever thought possible about the lives of the men who'd lived and died there. At first, the cryptic markings meant little, other than the comment from my own father to "go west." Even that was open to interpretation ― how far west? Russia, as I'd originally thought? Or another camp to the west somewhere in this part of the world, perhaps Laos or Cambodia?

The other messages I found scratched into wood and etched in concrete were less meaningful. Some were clearly parts of prayers, left to encourage either the writer or others that followed. Others bespoke immense pain, anguish beyond anything I could imagine. There were simple ones "I am dying." The longer I stared at that particular one, the more I began to see images of the man who must have written it.

I'm not some New Ager that believes in ghosts and channeling spirits from the other world, but I've had some experience with the inexplicable. The scratchy feeling I always get along my spine right before I hear an enemy fire-control radar. The impulse to wake up and tour my squadron in the middle of the night, back when I was in command, only to find something that had gone wrong and needed my attention ― or just a sailor who needed to talk. Call it ESP, call it command instinct, or just call it survival skills. Whatever it was, I knew about it. This was something different, and I chalked most of it up to my imagination. The longer I stared at those words, the more a face began visualizing in my mind. Gaunt, terribly drawn. Stubble clipped short along the jaw. A massive bruise along the right cheekbone, spreading over to encompass a black eye shot with purple and yellow around the eye.

I imagined him to be a man slightly shorter than myself, the same sort of build when well fed, but emaciated now from lack of food. He would be a brave man, although I doubt he would have believed that himself. The face I imagined bore scars from repeated beatings, the body bruised and welted in an ominous, indiscernible pattern. One arm looked as though it had been broken and reset badly, with a limited range of motion.

This man ― I had no name, merely this vision I created in my mind ― was a survivor. I imagined him bearing up under pain beyond anything I'd ever experienced, yielding only when it drove him completely out of his mind into sheer survival desperation. Then the words would come halting, slow, revealing as little as possible as he tried to lie. They would have known that, when he started lying, and the beatings would have gotten worse.

Still, he would have never broken completely. He would have been one of those men of incredible depth who are able to face their own limits, go past them, and rebound into some form of resistance. He would have brought strength to the others imprisoned there by his sheer determination and example. Had he been very senior? I considered the matter, then decided not. No, there have been others who'd taken command in the close-knit POW community, others who'd borne the ultimate responsibility for the performance of the men held captive there. But this man, the one who'd scratched those simple words on the wall, would have been one of their mainstays, the example that they held out to the others.

Had he died here?

Probably. I'd read the reports of the POW camps that were examined thoroughly, and I'd never found one that matched this location. But his message seemed more one last calm attempt to convey information than the anguished howl of a man who knew he would not survive.

But why had he not signed his name? Why not add that one word, just a last name, that would have identified him to the rest of the world?

Perhaps he wrote those words not just for himself, but for those men around him who were made of lesser stuff. They were all dying, they had to be. Abandoned here by their own country, their existence not even suspected until I'd come here on this tour, they had died one by one.

Other images came to me as I studied the rest of the secret messages scribbled on the walls. "Tell Sally I love her." It was signed "Rieger," probably a last name. Or maybe a nickname, something that he left as a message only to his relatives.

I saw a few more messages that I came to believe were left by my father as well. One had my own name, Matt, scratched into it. "Be strong, Matt." Whether it was a prayer or an admonition intended for my eyes someday, I could not decide. Yet it was more evidence that my father had been here, that he'd thought of me, and that somehow perhaps the image of me as he'd last seen me, as a very small, barely talking child, had helped buoy him through the torture and deprivations.

After two days, I was finished. I had compiled an extensive photographic record of the messages I'd seen, as well as a detailed pictorial overview of the camp and its location. I'd made sketches, suggested possible meanings to some of the more cryptic notes based on their location, and generally done what I could to document the camp and its existence.

Than was healing rapidly, regaining strength every day. His constitution was such that while the injury still limited his range of motion, it seemed barely to affect him. I marveled at his recovery, not sure I would have done as well, particularly not in the stifling heat and humidity that plagued the camp.

On the third day, I roused out of an uneasy, sweating sleep to an ominous smell ― smoke. I could see nothing, but the scent was unmistakable.

Around me, Than was organizing the rest of his crew, packing up gear and preparing us to move. I'd told him the previous day that I thought my work here was finished, and asked about camps further to the west.

The question appeared to surprise him, because he had examined the walls almost as carefully as I had, albeit with different reasons. "There is one location," he said finally. "We can go there if you wish." He shook his head, as though disapproving of the notion of another trek through the jungle. I had a feeling that there were reasons that he did not want to go that had nothing to do with his own physical condition.

Later, I would learn that Vietnamese aircraft had made an unprovoked attack on fighters from the USS Jefferson. But I had no inkling that that was the case at the time, and Than had steadfastly refused to admit that one of his men carried a radio capable of reaching their base station.

Now, the question of moving west was less of an issue. Than came running up to me, clearly agitated. "We must move."

"Where is the fire?" I asked.

He pointed to the east. "Very big ― some distance, but we must hurry." He regarded me levelly, as though trying to make sure I understood what he was saying. "It is very dangerous here, Mr. Tombstone. Very dangerous."

"From the fire?" I asked.

He shook his head, appeared to want to explain more, then settled for; "The fire. Yes. Come on ― we must leave immediately."

I packed up my own gear, then passed it off to the man who insisted on carrying it. By now I'd become accustomed to, though not comfortable with, the idea that Than would allow me to carry none of my own equipment. What had at first seemed like an elaborate courtesy for a field operation, intended solely to placate the ego of a flag officer, now took on a more ominous meaning.

Without my gear, I had no way of surviving in the jungle away from Than and his crew. Additionally, carrying my pack would allow them plenty of opportunity to search it every night, to make sure that I was not carrying a radio myself or some other locating beacon. While no questions had been asked about one, I was certain that such a device would raise innumerable problems on this delicate mission of trust.

Within twenty minutes, we were ready to leave. Than took point, setting a smart pace through the jungle. I wondered for a moment about the snipers, but he assured me that they had been cleared from the woods during the two days that we had camped there.

The smell of smoke was stronger now, and growing more so with every breath. If it were to the east, then it was gaining on us. Could we outrun it? What had at first seemed a foregone conclusion was feeling entirely less obvious now.

We were at a brisk walk, almost a trot, following the path of a creek bed through a narrow canyon. We moved steadily for two hours, not stopping for anything. Water breaks were taken on the run, and I saw one of the guards stuff a field ration in his mouth as the pace quickened.

It was the noise that brought me to a crashing halt. One so out of place and foreign in this decade. And one I knew well.

A jet engine, something powerful and military, I suspected from the high-pitched whine. It was coming in from the east, low over the trees, directly toward us. At first it was indistinguishable from the background buzz of insects, but I soon recognized it for what it was.

Than heard it too. He glanced back at me, saw that I had stopped, and yelled, "Move ― quickly now!"

We were running now, moving along the cleared area between the stream and the trees at breakneck speed. The first tendrils of smoke were now visible, and it was getting harder to breathe.

The aircraft continued inbound on us, and now I thought I could put a name to it. It wasn't American, that much I was certain, and in this area of the country that left only one choice ― a MiG-29.

The noise built to an almost deafening intensity, crescendoing until I thought it would permanently deafen me. Then the canopy overhead rattled, treetops whipping like pennants. A dark, black shape screamed overhead, filling the world around me with the sound and the smell of hot jet exhaust.

It must have been like this during the Vietnam war. Jungle troops on patrol, hearing the high-pitched scream of the enemy aircraft inbound, fleeing for their lives before the devastation and destruction that rained down from the skies. It was an entirely frightening experience, being on the other end of an air attack.

The noise of the fighter faded far more quickly than it had started, passing overhead and then continuing straight on ahead of us. Then the ground under my feet rose up to smash me in the face, shuddering and shivering like a massive earthquake. The noise again, a thick, dull roar this time. Another explosion rattled the jungle, and I realized what had happened.

Not a bombing run ― a crash. The fact that the aircraft had been skimming the treetops, the odd stutter in its engine, those had been the signs of a fatal injury. It had gone past us before auguring into the ground, but just barely.

Had the pilot gotten out? I had no way of knowing, but since it appeared to have impacted the ground directly ahead of us, there was a possibility that we might see him.

We were headed uphill now, breaking free of the smoke, for which we paid with aching calf and thigh muscles, as we negotiated the steep incline. Away from the creek bed, the trees were thicker now, the undergrowth almost impassable at times. Our progress slowed, but we appeared to be moving away from the path of the fire ― and from the aircraft that would undoubtedly be burning ahead of us.

We neared the top of one ridge, and Than called for a halt. After four hours of moving at almost breakneck pace through the jungle, my legs could barely hold me up. Than himself seemed indefatigable.

"We wait here," he commanded, and gestured toward the barren, rocky outcropping along the mountain.

"Why?" I asked. There was no doubt that in matters effecting our survival in the jungle, Than was the expert. If we survived, it would be because his decisions were the right ones, not because anything had been left to me to decide.

He regarded me for a moment, then appeared to reach some decision. "There is shelter here. Come, I will show you."

We crossed the rocky clearing, rounded three large boulders, clinging to them as we negotiated a narrow path, then arrived next to a sheer cliff face.

I stopped and stared up at it, amazed. There was a series of steps leading up the mountain face, maybe fifteen in all, to a narrow ledge. Just behind that ledge there was a dark, black opening. A cave ― one that was invisible from almost any angle except this one.

"If the fire comes closer, we will take cover there." Than gestured at the cave. "There are ways to survive fires. These I know."

A small, wintry smile, one that reminded me that he would have been a very young man during the days of the Vietnam war. Very young, but most probably a fighter. During the latter years, the Vietnamese drafted everyone including women, grandmothers, and children into the continuing fight against the strangers on their land. It was this action on their part that had led to some of the major atrocities of the last war. U.S. troops in the field began to distrust small children, knowing that the Vietnamese were not above strapping booby traps on the children's backs and sending them off to beg food from the all-too-generous American troops. More than one woman had been sent to decoy other men, playing on their great weakness and loneliness, and then slitting a man's throat at an intimate moment.

From this elevation, I could see the progress of the fire in the jungle below us. It was moving rapidly, and had already encompassed the area where I thought the camp was. I gave silent thanks that I'd made a complete visual record of it, knowing that the memories contained in it were now lost forever. Mine would be the last ― and only ― record of those messages echoing down through the decades.

I am dying.

The fire was following a general westerly course, leaping back and forth on either side of the creek bed we'd followed. It was approaching the position we would have been in had we not cut up the side of the mountain, and I could see now that there had been no chance of our outrunning it.

Additionally, it was creeping up the sides of the hill, more slowly than its forward progress, but still clearly moving. It was a long, narrow wedge that broadened gradually, eating up the countryside around it.

Than appeared to be unworried. He watched the fire with me, then said, "To the cave. We have preparations to make."

It isn't the heat of the flames that always kills men in fires. The dangers, even for those that are out of reach of the more obvious threats, are more subtle. Fire requires oxygen to burn, and a good forest fire will suck the oxygen away from areas near it. You can survive the heat and flames and still suffocate, and I was afraid that would be what would happen to us.

The men were moving now, filing into the cave with their packs.

I could hear the fire now, chomping the valley as it moved toward us like a giant beast devouring the terrain. It was punctuated by high-pitched squeals, as the heat flashed moisture inside large tree trunks into steam, splitting them open like roasted pigs. The wind was picking up now too, rushing in toward the fire, billowing up smoke in huge gouts into the sky.

We were all inside the cave now, and men were pulling large, folded packages out of their packs. Clear sheets of plastic, heavy lengths of canvas. I watched as they rigged them over the door, dousing the canvas first in water from their canteens, then covering it with plastic. The canvas faced outward, the plastic inside. They worked carefully but quickly by the light of flashlights, fastening the canvas and plastic securely to the edges of the entrance into the cave, driving metal spikes into the wood and then positioning clamps on those.

"It keeps the air inside," Than explained briefly. The force of the wind outside was already sucking the canvas up against the edges of the cave entrance, and it billowed away from us, creating what appeared to be an excellent air trap.

"Are there any other air vents in this cave?" I asked.

He glanced briefly at the ceiling, then shook his head. "I am not certain, but I think not. You see the smoke ― it pools near the top, not rushing out." Now I knew why he had lit the candle shortly after the men had started erecting the barricade.

"Where did you learn this?" I asked.

He shot me a dark look, then said, "Experience. We know to come prepared."

"I wonder how the fire started," I said.

Another unreadable glance from Than, and then he turned away. Something in his response puzzled me. While he was often providing less than complete explanations for what we were doing, he normally had at least some response. Then it hit me.

The MiG. The fire. There was one thing I knew far too well that could ignite incendiary fires across a wide swath of country. While not the only cause, certainly, a ground-strike attack with heavy weapons could do just that.

We had seen it too often even during practice runs. Even practice SAR missions, where troops on the ground drop smoke flares and then wait for helos, could fan into brush fires, particularly under the heavy downdraft of a rescue helicopter. Another lesson we'd learned during Vietnam.

The MiG ― the damaged MiG. And how had it been damaged? Through some mishap in a routine training mission?

From Than's response, I thought not. It had been in air combat, and that left just a few possible candidates. The Chinese to the north ― or the Jefferson to the east. And if Than had a radio, he would have known what had happened. Known, and been prepared to move out and flee from the fire.

The fire was on us now, the noise all-consuming. It sounded like a tornado, or the sound of some odd jet engine spooling up. The canvas and plastic barricade was sucking hard against its clamps now, and the men were lining the entrance, adding their strength to hold it in place against the difference in pressure between the inside of the cave and the outside. The canvas itself was smoking, and I could see a thin layer of smoke trapped between the canvas and the plastic.

How long could it hold? Even wetted down with water from our canteens, the canvas would soon dry into a thin, combustible layer. The fire was on us now, dancing and howling just past the thin temporary air lock we'd jury-rigged out of what we had. Flames danced and skittered along the canvas, sheets of fire steaming off the last remnants of water. The canvas was beginning to smoke. Or burn. The noise was unholy, and the small cavern was filled with groans and creaks of rock heating and expanding. A new danger now ― that the flames would crack the rock, opening air vents to the outside and quickly sucking out our oxygen.

The men were crouched around the lower edges of the canvas, which was stretched tight to immobilize its top, holding it with all their might against the rock walls. The clamps alone could not hold. The heat was unbearable, radiating in and raising the temperature inside to excruciating levels. I had thought the jungle hot, but it was nothing compared to the scorching, killing heat.

One of the men standing along the right side of the entrance let out a low, howling moan. He swayed, and I could see the canvas corner he was holding sag. There was a thin, whistling scream of air escaping. I jumped forward. Just as he collapsed, I seized the edge he'd been holding and slammed it hard against the rock. The whistling stopped. He went down with a dull, sickening thud into the rock floor. Than grabbed him by the collar with his one good hand and dragged him back away from the barrier.

I could feel it full force now, the heat, the unbearable heat. Fire swirled just inches from my fingers, kept at bay only by the canvas and plastic. I could feel the heat redden my fingers, scorching them now, and still I held on. It was not a matter of courage ― there was simply no choice.

Just as suddenly as it was upon us, the main fire stormed past. It was consuming fuel at a prodigious rate, and the scant vegetation around the cavern gave out quickly. I could hear it as it passed, the Doppler lowering of the frequency of the noise, just like the change in sound an aircraft makes as it passes overhead, or a train whistling off into the distance. The heat abated noticeably, but was still well above my pain threshold.

The air was hot, almost too hot to breathe. I took shallow breaths, sucking it in between clenched teeth and trying to let what little moisture remained in my mouth cool it before it seared my lungs. We were all breathing like that, short quick pants, held uptight and in place only by fear and adrenaline.

But there was hope now, as there had not been before. The temperature continued to drop, and I felt the tug of the canvas in my hands decrease slightly. The wind continued, though, as the fire sucked in fresh air behind it. Still, we held on.

It might have been minutes, it might have been hours. I'd lost all sensation of the passage of time, my world defined simply by the urgent need to hold onto the fabric in my hands, the dead, throbbing pain in my hands. We waited, silent.

Than spoke. "It is safe now." Still, I held on, and it wasn't until one of the other men pried my hands from the rock wall that the reality sunk in.

We were alive.

My fingers refused to move at first, locked into position by fear and heat. The men were oddly gentle now, easing me back from the wall and gently prying my hands off the canvas. I sank back against the wall, slid down into a sitting position, and studied my hands. They were red, blistered, and crusted now, black in a couple of spots. There was no real pain ― the nerve endings had been seared by the heat ― but that would come soon enough. I looked across the small cavern at the other men, who were similarly injured. "How is he?" I said to Than, gesturing at the man on the ground.

He shook his head, stared down at him, and prodded him gently with one foot. "The heat. I do not know ― the heat kills more quickly than anything except perhaps the fire."

"Or suffocation," I reminded him.

"Yes, that too." Than knelt down beside the man, touching his forehead briefly. He looked up at me. "He needs water, something cool ― we have none here."

Indeed we did not. We'd all emptied our canteens onto the canvas, expending every last drop dousing it. It hadn't seemed important at the time, not with the fire almost upon us. Besides, we knew that the lower regions of the mountain range were honeycombed with creeks and rivulets.

"I'll go get some," I offered. Another man, evidently understanding my suggestion, stood up and walked over to stand next to me.

Than shook his head again. "It is still too hot outside. The fire, it is past, but the ground is nothing but burnt wood and coals. It is still on fire."

I stepped out of the cavern and onto the rock ledge to look at what was left. The heat radiated up through my jungle boots, immediate and painful. Than was right ― I couldn't even stand on the rock ledge, much less hike down to the stream through the charred embers that had once been such lush vegetation.

The land around me was a harsh, barren devastation. The trees were stripped of leaves and limbs, and the sky was now visible. In place of the brilliant greens and yellows, there was only black, and a little gray where ash had formed. The only color that remained was in the sky, brilliant and serene. Smoke wafted up from the charred landscape, thick and cloying. I turned back to Than. "In a few hours perhaps."

"He does not have that much time." Than's voice was blunt and matter-of-fact. "If he survives, he survives." With this final assessment, he turned back to the man and made him as comfortable as he could. He extracted a first-aid kit from one pocket, the same one we had used to treat Than earlier, and a preloaded hypodermic. He found a clear patch of skin on the man's shoulder and plunged it home, depressing the cylinder to eject the full dose into the man. "Morphine," he said in response to my questioning glance.

I nodded. Absent water, morphine was the next best thing. If we could not save him, at least we could keep him comfortable during his final hours.

That night, we posted no guard, secure in the frail protection of our sheltered cave. I woke once at about two that morning, and wondered what had disturbed me. No nightmares that I could recall, and I was still so tired from surviving that day that it seemed impossible I had woken at all.

As sleep drifted back in, I pondered the possibilities. The fire had been moving west, the same direction as the second camp. The lifeline to my father that had seemed so strong in the earlier camp now seemed the thinnest of leads. Was that what the message had meant? And how far west? The possibility that I'd misunderstood his meaning, or even that Horace Greeley was the name of another man in the camp, ate at me.

I drifted back down into sleep without any answers. At the very edge of consciousness, I heard a sound that brought me bolt upright from my hard pallet on the rock floor.

Aircraft ― a helicopter to be specific. And not one of ours, not from the sound of it.

I rolled out of my pallet and went to Than, to wake him and tell him of the helicopter. Even though he had no guard mounted, he would want to know.

I should have been expecting it, but the night held one more surprise for me. The spot where I'd seen Than curl up under a coarse cotton blanket was empty.

I walked to the edge of the cave, stared out into the night, and wondered.