Page 145 of Cry Havoc
They are counting on you. The ones that are alive.
The moon drifted across the heavens and then dropped below the horizon, the sky beginning to warm with the soft blue light of an emerging dawn.
This time, Tom stayed in the water and kept moving.
Push it, Tom. Those POWs are counting on you. You have to be close.
The sun hovered just above the horizon when a sampan rounded a bend in the river. Tom did not notice it in time to duck into the reeds, and as it passed mid-river, it was evident that the men onboard had seen him.
They were not soldiers, but they would most certainly report an American with an AK swimming south.
No stopping now.
Two more basket boats appeared; fishermen checking their nets. They stared at him in disbelief.
He checked his watch and compass. It was just after 9:00 a.m. The river was taking him southeast. When he lifted his head, he saw the bridge.
Two hundred yards ahead, a wood-and-steel-beam structure, that was probably a remnant of French colonial rule, spanned the river. Tom wondered if it had been constructed in Laos or South Vietnam as both had been part of French Indochina.
You will know soon enough.
He swam toward it, coming ashore at river right, crawling through the mud and into the tree line. He felt chilled, but he was sweating.A fever?He would be surprised if he didn’t have malaria.
He worked himself up the embankment so that he was on the west side of the bridge with a good view of the packed dirt road.
If you see Pathet Lao or NVA, you did not go far enough, and you are getting back in that river tonight.
You are about to die, Tom.
No, not yet. You can keep going. Always one more klick.
He heard trucks approaching an hour later.
As they passed, he could see that they were cargo trucks. They were packed with soldiers. On the door of the green vehicles was a flag. It was yellow with three horizontal red stripes. It was the flag of South Vietnam.
Rather than step out and get shot, Tom decided to strip off his shirt and ditch his AK so as not to look like a Viet Cong guerrilla.
Forty-five minutes later another convoy approached. This one was distinctly American. A Playboy Bunny logo was painted on the driver’s side door.
Tom stepped into the road in front of the lead vehicle, arms outstretched to his sides to show he was not armed.
The convoy came to a halt. A gunner on dual .50s behind the cab of the lead truck had Tom dead in his sights.
A man in the passenger seat leaned out the window, a thick cigar between his lips.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, in a thick southern drawl.
“Tom Reece. Petty Officer. U.S. Navy.” Tom’s voice was hoarse and strained.
The soldier looked at his driver, perplexed by the lone shirtless American standing before them. He then stuck his head back out the window.
“Come forward, but don’t make any sudden moves that might get you killed.”
Tom walked until he was just off the front right fender of the lead truck. The .50 gunner in a flak jacket and unbuckled helmet was chewing bubble gum and blowing bubbles.
“All right ‘Navy,’?” the soldier said. “What’s the capital of Texas?”
“It’s not Dallas,” Tom replied.
