The Circle of Wounded Souls, The Broken Circle: The Circle of Wounded Souls, #4

By Jim Ricca

Rising from the depths of poverty and despair, Jim Richards fought his way through the hell of Vietnam, to engage in even more deadly combat to defend his family. With his adopted brother and family of friends, he not only endures the loss of his beloved Mary, but overcomes the deep emotional scars of an abused childhood and the Vietnam War.

After destroying the threats to his family, Richards, with the help of his brother, builds an incredible business empire with the sole purpose of using his riches to help the poor, the neglected and abused. However, he is kidnapped by the Cuban Navy while on his honeymoon, and now faces the greatest challenge of his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Ricca
• Release date: Jun 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476054568

Jim Ricca

Jim was born and raised in Philadelphia, and lived there until drafted into the Army in 1971. He served a total of 18 years between the active Army and reserves as a Military Policeman, Artillery forward observer and in the Mechanized Infantry. He attended college on the GI bill and earned a B.A. in Political Science, International Relations from LaSalle University. He held middle and senior level management positions in the transportation, printing/publishing industries and plastics manufacturing field. Jim also served several years as a Special Agent/Special Investigator for a Federal agency. Jim is the author of the four book, Circle of Wounded Souls series, in addition to, Legacies; an American Journey, Hunting and Hunted in Alaska, The four book Alien's Reward series with Journey to Another Earth. In addition to, Der Schatten Teufel, The Shadow Devil, and Running Down Terror has been released along with: The Replacement Priest, and Escape from the Asylum. Jim resides in Maryland's Eastern Shore where he divides his time between writing and fishing the Chesapeake Bay and surf fishing along the shore..

Book preview

THE CIRCLE OF

WOUNDED SOULS

The Broken Circle

Book 4

The final chapter in the series chronicling the lives of four emotionally crippled people; their loves, conflicts, the Vietnam War and it's aftermath, loss and redemption

By

Jim Ricca

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Jim Ricca

Smashword Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

This book is available in print at most online retailers

Discover other titles by Jim Ricca on Smashwords.com

The Circle of Wounded Souls, Book One

The Circle of Wounded Souls, Book Two

The Circle of Wounded Souls, The Circle of Survivors, Book Three

Legacies: an American Journey

Kathryn’s Summer

The Alien's Reward

The Alien's Reward II, The Alliance

PREFACE

This is the final book in the Circle of Wounded Souls series. If you’ve read the previous three books, I most humbly thank you for your loyalty, continued interest and dedication to the characters. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading about Jim, Bob, Rachel, and Mary as much as I enjoyed writing about them. We’ve followed their lives from insecure teens, through the war and its horrific effects, through adulthood, parentage and with this book; middle and old age.

The characters were as realistic as I could make them, and I often drew them from people I knew, warts and all. Although the rags-to-riches storyline was somewhat improbable; it did add a gee-whiz; if only I had that kind of money, whimsy to it.

Some people complained that I belabored the Vietnam War, and maybe I did. But over 60,000 men and women of my generation lost their lives there, all due to a series of horrible lies. And many more than that number suffered and died in the years after their service there without help from the government that sent them to that godforsaken land. Unfortunately, we did not learn from our history and like a nation of sheep, we allowed Bush and his cronies to get us into the quagmire of Iraq.

This is not the great nation our founding fathers envisioned over two hundred years ago. We have allowed ourselves to be a ruled by a government that is, of the rich, by the rich and for the rich. In this book I tried to show what a rich and powerful businessman could do if he remembered Christ’s words from the Sermon on the Mount.

I just wish more people would remember and put into practice His words and teachings.

Enjoy this last book in the series. I’m sure you’ll find it to be just as wild and unpredictable as it’s predecessors, if not more so. And try to keep in mind at all times;

It’s fiction! So please; no more death threats over the fate of the characters.

CHAPTER 1

My head felt like it was going to explode as I slowly regained consciousness. My eyes refused to focus and my limbs would not, or could not move. After a long while, I slowly realized that my arms and legs were chained to a wooden platform. Then the realization that I was not on board a ship, but was secured in a stone-walled cell with a dim light bulb hanging overhead slowly became evident. How long I was out was beyond me, but that single club to the head must have been reinforced with drugs as my mind reeled and swam erratically.

There was a foul odor in the room and the stench was making my stomach do somersaults in revulsion. After a while I felt wetness in my crotch and a thick, sticky sensation around my butt; so I must have pissed and shit myself since being locked up in here.

I tried to yell, but the best I was able to do was to let out a weak croaking noise. My throat was as dry as the desert and my tongue was swollen and stuck to the roof of my mouth. There nothing I could do but lay there and hope room service would come by. But then, the Cubans and Koreans weren’t noted for their hospitality, or for their humane treatment of prisoners.

My only hope was for them to un-cuff me long enough so I could grab a weapon, kill at least a couple of them before they’d shoot and kill me outright. I knew Castro never returned prisoners, and you’d be better off dead than to be a prisoner of the North Koreans.

I made up my mind that I had no future worth living, and the only way to escape the certain torture and agonizing death facing me was to die as quickly as possible.

Missing Rachel and little Mary, and knowing I’d never see them again made my current situation even more painful. At least if I was dead, I’d see my Mary again, if the good Lord allowed me to after I passed on. In the meantime, there was nothing to do but wait. Remembering how I was able to sleep for long periods of time after Mary’s death, I began to control my breathing while imaging that we were together again.

Just before I passed into my dream world, I suddenly remembered that we mailed Park’s invitation via the Korean embassy. I didn’t have a security leak, the Koreans did, and now we were going to pay for it.

Slowly, the dream came back, and Mary and I were together once again.

Cold water woke me with a shock as a Cuban swore at me in Spanish. He was probably disgusted by the stench permeating the cell, but that was their fault, not mine. I carefully looked him over as he unlocked my leg irons and noticed that he was unarmed. His buddy was carrying a nasty looking club, and he made no attempt to hide that fact that he was about to puke from the aroma of shit, piss and my rotten body odor. Something in the back of my mind told me to play opossum and act as if I was suffering from a serious brain injury, which might just cause them to relax a little and provide an opportunity for me to kill a few of them.

The Cuban stood back and shouted something to me as he waved his arms in an upward motion. I just stared at him blankly for a second, then closed my eyes, raised my hands in a twisted shape and faked a few spasms. He shouted again but this time he gave me a kick to get me moving. He couldn’t hurt me much more than I already was, so I simply curled up in a fetal position and made choking sounds.

Several more kicks and they were satisfied that I was unable to move on my own. One grabbed me, rolled me onto the floor, delivered a few more shots to my back before he engaged in a loud and prolonged argument with his partner.

Eventually they dragged me out of my cell by my arms and down the hall to a latrine. My clothes were cut away, tossed aside. I was hit with a strong stream of cold water from a hose. After a few moments, someone dumped a bucket of soapy water on me, scrubbed at me half-heartedly with a broom before rinsing me off with the hose again.

I noticed quite a bit of blood flowing off of my head as I was bring rinsed off, and as painful as it was, the evidence that I’d had a head injury might play well for me in the near future. While they were hosing me down, I was able to swallow enough water to slake my thirst without them noticing. The water tasted nasty and I expected a case of the Hershey squirts to hit me in a few hours, which would seriously add to the air pollution in my new quarters.

There was much more cursing and swearing in Spanish once they were done washing me. One of them yelled something down the hall and a few minutes later, somebody tossed an item of clothing on top of me. I continued making miserable noises in my throat while occasionally initiating a spasm or two, and then rolling my eyes back up into my head.

They roughly stood me on my feet, but I simply collapsed into a heap, which brought a rain of fists and boots, until they roughly pulled a pair of stinking coveralls on me, but left the front open since it had no buttons or zipper. Once properly attired, they dragged me back to my cell, dumped me on the floor and then slammed the door behind them.

When they threw me on the floor, I put my hands over my head for protection against the stone floor. After I heard the two sets of boots walk down the hall, I waited a bit longer, relaxed and slowly removed my hands and rolled onto my side and assumed a fetal position. A peek at my hands revealed that the wound from the rifle butt was still bleeding. Not enough blood to indicate a serious wound, but enough to give someone second thoughts about my mental condition. I’d seen enough brain injured patients at Crownsville to know what to do when I was being watched or questioned. In addition, I also knew the Cubans wouldn’t waste an MRI or CAT scan examination on me, even if they had one; which I doubted they did.

It was a while before I could get back to my special dreamland. This time, Mary, Rachel and my baby were there, and we had a wonderful day on the beach together.

There was no way I could tell how long I was out; with no window, clock or noise penetrating the thick wooden door, but after what only seemed like a few minutes, I was kicked awake and then dragged out of the room again. This time there were two different guards and they too were unarmed except for their clubs. They brought me to a stained, linoleum floored room with white tiled walls, a single desk with a lamp and a stool, which was placed in front of the desk.

Behind the desk sat a Cuban officer, smoking a cigar and standing to either side behind him were two Korean army officers.

My guards sat me on the stool, and I slowly leaned to the side and fell off of it. After three more tries, the men held me on the stool by tying my wrists in front of me then pulling my elbows back and slipping a wooden pole under my elbows and across my back. When they yanked upward on the pole, the pain in my shoulders and arms was incredible. I was involuntarily making strangling sounds as I rolled my eyes and let my head hang down to my chest.

The Cuban began asking me questions in English, but all I could do was make more strangling noises in response. I felt blood from my head wound trickling down my face as the pain increased exponentially. It took all the self control I could muster to maintain my brain injured appearance until they released their grip on the pole and I fell forward onto the linoleum floor.

The pain was so bad that I couldn’t hear what the fucking bastard was asking, but I could see that the Koreans were having the time of their lives. Those sons of bitches were like the NVA and they lived to inflict pain on people who couldn’t defend themselves. The only thing that kept me from losing it was the memory of drilling their friends on the beach that night. I kept replaying each shot and its outcome, over and over in my head as they changed from one torture method to another.

I finally reached a point where the pain was too much and I passed out, but they merely dumped a bucket of ice cold water on me to bring me around. And then they continued their fun. It went on for hours, or so it seemed, but eventually I blacked out and woke some time later on the floor in my cell.

Every bone and muscle in my body was screaming in agony as I tried to move into a more comfortable position. My arms refused to respond to my brains commands. And my legs felt as if they were on fire. I had to get them to kill me as soon as possible, or failing that, I’d starve myself to death, but that would take a lot longer. There was no way I could tolerate much more of this, however; I knew sure as shit happens, I’d have to until I could bring my life to an end.

The next round was solely the Koreans turn. They didn’t even bother to ask any questions; they just wanted to inflict as much pain as they could, which they did with relish. They had me trussed up like a pig and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to inflict some pain of my own.

The questions I was asked by the Cuban primarily concerned my relationship with Park. I had no idea why they needed more information on him since they had him in another cell somewhere in this shithole and could ask him themselves. But that tough son of a bitch was probably refusing to answer their questions and the stupid bastards must have thought they'd get the information out of me. I really wanted to tell the Cuban prick to go piss up a rope, but figured it would blow my game.

Occasionally a dirty plate, containing a thin stinking soup was pushed into my cell through a small hatch at floor level. As hungry as I was, it was left there until they came for me again. The only water I drank was what I was able to take in when they hosed the blood and shit off of me. The effects of my self starvation was beginning to tell as I was passing out faster and more frequently, which was a small mercy during the prolonged torture sessions.

One day out of nowhere, a Russian officer walked in while the Koreans were about to start on me again. Mr. Richards, He said in British accented English, Can you hear me?

I ignored the fucker, but I was impressed that they though enough of me to bring in one of their professional torturers. But I still have no idea what they wanted from me since I’d been out of the Army for over 17 years and any information I might have was way out of date.

Someone had a radio playing and I could hear The Eagles singing Take It Easy.

Mr. Richards, I am Colonel Yarachenko of the KGB and I’ve been asked to take part in your interrogation. It seems that our comrades have failed to secure a confession using their rather crude methods. So I am going to inject you with a drug that we have found to be very effective in making people talk without the use of violence. So just relax and think about how important it is to tell the truth and how it will free you from the pain and agony my less sophisticated comrades prefer to employ. He poked my shoulder with his syringe, stepped back and sat down to wait for the drug to have its effect.

After about ten minutes, the music started to sound pretty good, and a short time later, I could have sworn I was right there in the recording studio with the band as they played. I concentrated on the music, particularly the bass guitar since I played bass for a short time prior to being drafted. I really didn’t hear the Russian or anyone else, and an added benefit to his drug was its ability to take the edge off my pain.

The Russian was fit into my schedule of torture on alternating days. I appreciated the release from my agony, and the music the man liked to play. I know he’d read my history, but it probably didn’t include my frequent use of various recreational pharmaceuticals during the sixties, which allowed me to thoroughly enjoy whatever truth serum his government found so effective on other people. I almost laughed at him when, during my second injection, he claimed that he possessed an extensive formulary of drugs guaranteed to make a capitalist pig like me submit to his will.

Far out, man; bring em on, motherfucker, I said to myself, this shit you’re giving me ain’t nothing like the stuff I took back in the sixties, but I’ll take any high I can get at times like this. But whatever you do; just keep that music playing! The stupid fuckers didn’t know who they were dealing with. Anyone who grew up in that era would gladly have paid to get a taste of their drugs.

How long this went on was a complete mystery to me. It could have been days, weeks or months, but it went on and on without a break until one day or night, when they dragged me from my stinking cell, hosed me down again and threw me on a bed; a real bed with sheets and a pillow. I couldn’t tell if I was hallucinating, dreaming, or if it was really happening to me, but I kept up my act even though I was no longer sure if I was acting anymore; my injuries were that severe.

My arms and legs were roughly strapped to the bed frame by a nasty looking, pig face bastard, with a foul body odor, rotten teeth and breath that would put shit to shame. He was cursing and swearing at me while he slapped my arms searching for a vein to stick an IV needle in. Then he looked at my eyes, took my temperature and blood pressure. He eventually left, roundly swearing at me after I showed my appreciation for his tender loving care by pissing on his bed.

I’d lost quite a bit of weight since I’d been taken prisoner. My forearms were extremely thin and covered with black and blue marks, oozing sores and wounds that probably wouldn’t heal if things kept up the way they were.

Rolling my head around slowly on the pillow while making gurgling noises, I saw there were ten beds in the decrepit, filthy infirmary, and all were occupied by people who appeared to be in various stages of dying.

The man in the bed next to me was staring at me with unblinking eyes. After several minutes of rolling my head back and forth, it became obvious the man was dead, and probably had been dead for some time. His flesh was gray, his eyes dull, flat and unseeing. Why they hadn’t moved him out of the room was probably a good indication of the level of medical care the prison afforded its valued guests.

These fuckers would never pass a JCAHO inspection, I thought as watched a rat the size of a Pontiac Bonneville crawl up on the guy and start sniffing around his face.

At least I’ll die on a bed and not lying in some stinking cell, I thought as I gratefully retreated to the mental sanctuary where my loved ones waited for me.

When I was shaken awake, the dead man was gone. He was replaced by another man who didn’t look much better than the man he replaced. My IV bag was empty and probably had been for some time, but it didn’t matter to me. If I could have freed a hand, I would have yanked the bag from its stand and let my blood drain out onto the floor.

A man in a badly stained white lab coat stood next to my bed, stared at me for a moment while I was slowly rocking my head from side to side and rolling my eyes. I had to be careful not to focus on him or anything else.

The man pulled back the sheet covering me and winced at what he saw. Then he sat next to me and said quietly in English, Yankee, I don’t know if you can hear me or even understand me, but it appears that my countrymen have inflicted a serious injury to your brain during your capture and imprisonment. He looked around the room carefully and then continued, I am a prisoner here too, but I am a doctor, trained at the University of Florida, School of Medicine. He held my head still with one hand while he looked into my eyes, mouth, and ears then checked my pulse.

Again, I don’t know if you can hear or understand what I am saying, but I was told the Korean man who was brought in with you died of a heart attack while being questioned, so at least his suffering is behind him and no one can hurt him any more.

I hoped I didn’t show any signs of recognition as he told me about Park. The man, as badly stained as his coat was, he was still too well dressed to be a prisoner, and had probably been planted here to see if I would be able to endure more torture, or worse, transport to North Korea.

He didn’t show any signs of noticing anything different in my behavior as he continued, The Koreans were very disappointed when they realized that you were of no use to them, and have given up on you; although they really were concentrating their efforts on your Korean friend. From what I was able to gather from their conversations with our interrogators, the other man was the head of the South Korean CIA in the United States and he had a wealth of knowledge they needed to secure. You were only taken prisoner with him so they could use you as a pawn to force him to talk.

I began to drift off, and the last thing I heard was that I was being transferred to an asylum for the mentally ill. They would hold me there until I died because the Cuban government would never release me to the US in my condition, especially after all the trouble that my seizure caused them.

When I woke, the empty IV bag had been replaced with a full one. But I had no idea how long I was out. Several men were loading me onto a stretcher and they weren’t too concerned about my comfort while doing it.

The doctor who'd spoken with me before, was speaking with one of the men in Spanish. He turned to me and said, You are being transported to one of our clinics where you will be allowed to die in peace. He placed a small bottle of pills in my hand and told me to use them sparingly. The bottle contained all the pain killers he had left in the infirmary, and they might make a dent in the terrible headaches I must be having. He slipped a large manila envelope under my legs, gave the men a final order then said, Go with God, my unfortunate friend.

My arms weren’t restrained, but the men were unarmed so there was no sense trying to grab a weapon. When they almost tipped me off the stretcher, I discovered that I was as weak as a newborn baby, and barely had the strength to push myself back on the stinking stretcher. So much for my idea of going out in a gun battle; I probably couldn’t even hold a pistol long enough to take aim.

They carried me outside to their ambulance, a 57 Chevy station wagon. It was painted white with red crosses on the doors. I was about to smile at their devotion to the old Chevy when I remembered that Cuba had its supply of Detroit iron cut off back in 1960.

It was hotter than hell and incredibly humid. We were in a fairly large city, probably Havana I thought, and there was an air of neglect and decay permeating the city as we drove through the noisy, crowded streets. I looked around as best I could, and saw several modern Russian made military trucks.

There were only two men in the car with me, both in the front seat and they seemed to have a certain dislike for the Russian drivers. My caretakers liked to swear, and then spit out the window whenever we were passed by a Russian vehicle. The man in the passenger seat was about 50 years old, the driver, from what I saw of him, was probably a little older, so they must have lived in Cuba before Castro’s revolution.

The passenger turned to me, Meester Americano, I doan know eef you can unnerstan me; I no spick Englash in long time. We take you to small hospital in Santa Cruz del Norte, where you are permeeted to die. Ees nice place weeth nice peoples working there. Dey takes good care of you till you dead.

He crossed himself several times then continued, We told you bad Americano creeminal to communistas and Fidel, but you no look like no creeminal to me an Jose. But if Fidel an communistas say you bad man, then you our fren.

It took the entire morning to complete the trip on a road that had more holes and ruts than Delaware Avenue in Philly. The men stopped several times for fruit, and drinks. The older man was kind enough to help me drink down a delicious bottle of grapefruit and orange juice. When they stopped for lunch, they even bought me a bowl of seafood soup, which they carefully spoon-fed me, and it was absolutely delicious.

These must be the real Cubans, I thought to myself. The bastards who have been torturing me were probably nothing but a bunch of thugs and criminals with uniforms.

We finally arrived at the small hospital, which looked more like a cheap motel. Jose and his friend opened the tailgate, and as they were sliding me out of the car, Jose whispered to me, I will pray that your death comes painlessly and swift, senor. I am very sorry for whatever happened to you here, and I hope your family finds out that you are with God soon. Not knowing what happened to a loved one is the worst thing that someone can endure.

I ceased my act, grabbed his wrist and whispered, Gracious amigo; thank you for your kindness. I will pray for you once I’m in heaven.

He startled, looked down at me with a shocked face, then he quickly glanced at his partner, gave him a conspirators grin and whispered to me, We shall meet again, my friend.

The hospital was actually a hospice, and just as I was told, the staff was very attentive, polite and caring. The lady in charge spoke English very well and explained to me as she was taking my vital signs, that Fidel did not spend a lot of his resources on the dying or mentally ill, but only budgeted enough to see to it that they were fed, and died with a minimum of dignity.

I don’t know if you can understand me, Mr. whatever your name is, but we will see to it that you are comfortable, clean and fed as best as we can.

She inspected the bottle of pills the doctor at the prison gave me and said the pills were worth more than gold since the US had implemented its trade embargo. Mrs. Costas, as she said her name was, placed the pills in her pocket, told me she’d save them for me, and then asked if I was in pain now.

I kept up my act and she just patted my cheek before stating that she’d be by to see me later.

Once she was satisfied that I was going to live long enough, she instructed several teenage boys to carry me to my room, which I was to share with an old, emaciated man dying from the advanced stages of cancer.

After the boys had me tucked under clean white sheets and drew a mosquito net around my bed, they whispered to each other for a few minutes then left the room. I waited for a few minutes, then ceased my movements and checked out the room.

My roommate was barely breathing. His face had the pallor of the dead, or soon to be dead. He was completely out of it and had no knowledge of my presence.

The room did in fact appear to be an old motel. There were our two beds, a nightstand between them, a cheap chest of drawers, a small bathroom and not much else. The walls were adorned with old tourism posters, a wooden crucifix and a religious painting. Then I spotted a calendar on the wall and I damn near shouted out loud. The calendar page was turned to September, 1986! I’d been a prisoner since March 1st and six months had gone by while I was in another world. How in the hell I lived this long was beyond me. I don’t remember eating anything during that time, and the only water I drank was when they were hitting me with the hose. I should have died after the second or third week of my imprisonment. I was still alive for some reason, and just barely alive at that.

Except for the two teenage boys who came to help move me and my roommate when they changed our sheets, the staff was made up of people in their late forties and fifties. Most wore gold or silver necklaces with crucifixes, so I knew they were Christians, if not Catholics, for all the good that would do me.

Castro was no fan of the church and it was understandable. The church in Cuba supported the old Batista regime; as corrupt as it was because of the favors and privileges the dictator bestowed on the church. Fidel made no attempt to hide to his hatred for the religious leadership, and it was rumored that he’d ordered the deaths of many priests, nuns and others associated with the church due to their resistance to his rebels.

On the other hand, Batista was bad news to most Cubans, and their overwhelming support for Castro and his rebels was understandable. The common Cuban prior to the revolution had no reliable medical care, social support, government aid, or education; not to mention basic human rights. The bastard deserved to be overthrown and shot, but he got away to Miami before he received what he had coming to him. Unfortunately, our government decided to back the American businessmen and the mafia. They really controlled Cuba, and not the Cuban people, thus driving Castro into the waiting arms of the Russians.

Like most revolutionaries, once they seized power, they were reluctant to give it up, and in a very short period of time, he had become as bad as, or worse than the dictator he replaced. I’ve always thought the man became unhinged and developed a deep, abiding hatred for the US when he failed to make the cut for the Cincinnati Reds during spring try-outs back in the 50s. Maybe he misunderstood and decided to start his own team of Reds when he couldn’t become a Red for Cincinnati. I guess you never know about some people; after all, the guy was once a lawyer, too.

The second day in my new quarters made me feel human again. I was carried into the bathroom, carefully placed in a tub of warm water and bathed properly with strong soap, then toweled off. Once they had me clean, my wounds were dressed and then I was carried outside, propped up in a chair and given a shave and a haircut.

Mrs. Costas stared at me for a long time, said something to a young man in Spanish as she made cutting motions across her face. The kid started snipping away at the beard that had grown in during my incarceration. He worked on my shrubbery for quite some time, while an older woman held my head still for him. Once he finished shaving me, the women stood around smiling and commenting on the improvement, before I was carried back to my bed.

Each morning, noon and evening, one of the staff would patiently sit beside me and carefully spoon-feed me. I was given a lot of fruit juices, thin soups with some kind of fish with veggies. And after a few weeks, their food and attention to my wounds began to have a noticeable effect on my overall health.

I began to feel my strength returning.

Carefully, after they left the room, I would sit up for a while; move my legs and arms until I became dizzy. Each day’s exercises, as minor as they were, gave me an incremental improvement in my stamina until a few months later; I decided it was time to stand. Again, it wasn’t for long initially, but each day’s exercise helped until I was finally able to walk to the bathroom, where I took my first dump in a flush toilet. It was Christmas week and I thought it was a great gift, not only for me, but also for the nurses who didn’t have to wipe my skinny ass for the first time since I’d been there.

Mrs. Costas entered my room with several staff members that evening, carrying a wrapped gift. They sang a Christmas carol for me and my newest roommate before she sat next to me and helped me open my gift.

Mister James Richards, she stated quietly, yes, I know who you are now. I saw your picture on a television that can pick up the station in Key West. There was a short feature on the news about how your government has given up trying to get Fidel to return you to your family. They claim that you were on your honeymoon when our navy illegally seized you and a South Korean friend while still in Bahamian waters. The newsman said you are a very good man who provided free medical care for the poor at the many hospitals you owned. Even the Pope has asked for your release, but Fidel told them that you died from an infection in May, while you were in prison for violating Cuban Territorial waters.

I couldn’t let up on my act. She may be testing me for her bosses at the prison, or one of the staff may be an informant. But I was heartbroken that my government didn’t keep trying to secure my release.

I know all this may mean nothing to you, but I want you to know that we will continue to care for you. I also want you to know that your body is healing, if not your mind. But we will pray for you every day since we now know you are a Catholic like us. You must be very special for the Pope himself to ask for your return, so maybe the baby Jesus will grant our prayers for your mind to heal someday. In the meantime, we will continue to care for you, and will continue to tell the people in Habana that your condition is no better.

I wanted to reach out to hug and kiss her, but it was too risky yet, so I just gurgled for her as she held up a set of hand-made wooden rosary beads, kissed the crucifix, and then place them around my neck.

After waiting a decent interval, I began crying out of gratitude for her thoughtfulness and loneliness for my family. My only hope was that they didn’t believe the lies Castro told them about my death. This would be the second time my poor Rachel, along with my brother and the rest of the family, would have been told I had died.

My mind was made up; I was going home; no matter what it took. I was going to get back to my family.

At least ten more months went by without much improvement in my physical condition. I couldn’t understand why my body had hit a wall in its conditioning. My diet had plenty of protein and natural vitamins from my meals, which now included more solids in the form of veggies and fish, but I had almost no stamina. I could handle no more than three or four round trips to the bathroom before my head would begin spinning, and no matter how many aerobic exercises I did, the strength in my arms and legs would last no more than five minutes.

The only things that kept me from going crazy were the prolonged daily visits with Mary. She was always as loving and kind as I remembered her. I relived our visits to the beach, our wedding day and that very special day when we found each other. There were occasional dreams about the fun times I had with Bobby, along with my Army buddy Joe Rommel. But dreams were only dreams. They were a convenient escape from my loneliness, and no amount of dreaming could change my sad reality.

On days when it wasn’t too hot, someone would wheel me out to a screened in gazebo to enjoy the outdoors. I watched the numerous tropical birds, enjoyed the aroma of the flowers and observed the ships sailing across the distant horizon.

Time passed with the boredom and monotony broken only by the occasional passing storm and religious holidays when the staff would present me with small gifts. During my third fall at the hospice, the staff loaded all the patients onto buses and trucks for a trip further inland. Mrs. Costas was kind enough to tell me that there was a hurricane headed towards Cuba, and everyone was ordered inland until it passed. We’d had a beauty of storm hit us the previous September, with a lot of rain and wind; it did no damage and we weren’t evacuated.

We were taken to a large school house where we were kept for two days while the storm raged. Once it moved on, we were returned to the hospital. There were a few trees down, with a lot of palm fronds scattered around, but otherwise, no damage to our humble abode.

Several days later, while I was sitting out in the sun room, I heard a Miami or Key West radio station that had been turned on a bit too loud in the office. Listening to Yankee radio or watching their TV stations was frowned upon by the powers that be, and anyone caught at it disappeared for a long time if not forever. The announcer gave the damage reports from areas in the US that had been struck by the storm. It was so refreshing to hear someone speaking English that I ceased my act, closed my eyes and listened intently to the man.

When he played Layla, by Eric Clapton, a flood of memories overwhelmed me. My mind raced back to a time when I was young, free and healthy. I saw Rachel sitting next to me, as we both sung the words to the music, or at least the words we could understand. Then there was the time me and Bob were working on my Mustang and the song came on the little radio we had in the garage. This song was playing in the background when Rachel and I recited our litanies to each other the night we agreed to get married. It brought back so many memories, some good, and some bad, some long forgotten.

At least I was able to hear the latest US and world news, until someone snapped off the radio. It seemed that Reagan was intent on starting world war three, or at least preparing for it. Reagan had a lot of big business buddies who put that stupid bastard in office, and they were screwing the living shit out of the working class and poor. Where they got the balls to have the FDA declare ketchup a vegetable to deprive poor kids of a decent and healthy meal just to save a few bucks for the military industrial complex was beyond me. It was completely unconscionable and I damned those greedy bastards to hell for it.

I also cursed the nation of sheep that my country had become. The country was now populated by ignorant idiots being led to the slaughter by a very media-savvy group of businesses who owed no loyalty to anyone, or any country, and had become a power unto themselves.

Months and months went by with only marginal improvements to my physical condition. Workouts were conducted at least three or four times a day with a maximum duration of only 30 minutes each before I became exhausted. I don’t know what had happened to me, but whatever it was, I had to find out and fix it if I was ever going to get home again.

I’d been away for almost seven long years now, with nothing to show for it but a good tan and a ruined body. I had to do something, but what to do was still a mystery. My friends Jose and Eduardo, the ambulance drivers stopped to visit with me one day. They were relatively frequent visitors; stopping by whenever they dropped off a dying patient for Mrs. Costas. We spoke in hushed tones, although I knew I was taking a hell of a chance trusting two men I only saw three or four times a year.

Jimmy, how are you doing my friend? Eduardo asked after checking to see that the door to my room was closed and locked.

I am doing much better than I was when you first brought me here, but I can’t get into shape so I can escape to America. I can only stand 30 minutes of exertion before I become completely exhausted and almost pass out.

I shall ask my friend who is a doctor if he can explain what your problem is. But we want to let you now that we are going to leave Cuba soon, and try to make it to the United States.

I was surprised that he would risk telling me this, but I was taking a hell of a risk myself. If you do not return to see me before you go, I wish you the best of luck and may God be with you on your journey, my friend.

Jose has been in touch with a friend who works at the airport, and he told us there is a small plane an Americano was using to fly drugs to your country. We are going to steal the plane to fly to the US. The plane is in good shape. But the idiot pilot thought he was over Florida when he landed it at naval airport a few miles from here.

I used to be a pilot in the old Cuban air force. I also flew crop dusters until our plane broke down and we couldn’t secure parts for it, Jose interjected. Since then I have been flying the ‘57 Chevy ambulance for the government. My friend has been sneaking gas into the plane whenever he can. He says it is full now, so we will have enough gas to fly four people to Key West or Miami as soon as we have a cloudy night with no moon.

You’ll have to stay low and rely on your compass to get there. I remarked as I felt a pang of jealously. But once you get there, you must let my family know I am alive, and for them to try and get me out of here. But make sure they do it very quietly or Mrs. Costas will be punished by those fucking communists.

The two men glanced at each other for a moment, nodded their heads and asked if there was anything I needed in the meantime.

Just your friendship and conversation, I replied.

They left me with a small transistor radio, which they hid under my nightstand before my friends said their goodbyes.

A few weeks later, I was wheeled into the office, where Mrs. Costas sat across from me and asked if I understood her.

I slowed my head movements dramatically, gave her a direct look in her eyes and said, Si.

She eyed me with some uncertainty, but only for a moment while another, very familiar woman sat next to her. The woman was pretty and wearing, of all things, a Crownsville softball team sweatshirt. I finally recognized her as one of the many Spanish exchange students Dr Pinto had brought to the hospital. I couldn’t remember her name, but I was positive I knew her.

She was staring at me intently and I could tell she was trying to place me.

I had to pee something awful, so I pointed to my crotch, gurgled, and held out my arms. It was my signal for someone to take me to the bathroom. Mrs. Costas and the Spanish psychologist helped me to my feet, walked me to the bathroom, and once they were sure I was able to lean against the wall to pull down my pants and sit on the thunder mug, they closed the door behind me. There really was no need for them to help me, but I wasn’t about to let anyone know I could walk on my own. I received the shock of my life when I turned around to see myself in the mirror for the first time in almost eight years.

My own bathroom did not have a mirror and almost all of the windows were painted white or black as a precaution against air raids by the Yankee air forces. And to tell the truth, I never really tried to see my reflection, out of fear of what I might see.

My heart almost stopped when I saw an old, white-haired man with the face of an ex-boxer who’d lost too many fights during his career. My nose was bent and crooked. My eyebrows were scarred, swollen and missing patches of hair; torn off during the beatings. My once smooth cheeks and forehead were splotched with scars from the beatings and the lit cigars ground into my face. I looked again just to be sure it was me I was seeing. And didn’t like what I saw. The wonderful miracle that Jenny had performed on my scarred body had been undone by those evil bastards.

But the worst thing was the white hair. I’d heard of people’s hair turning white after traumatic events, but I never thought it would happen to me. I was just over 46 and looked like I was over 70. I sat down, took a leak and wondered if anyone at home would recognize me, if and when I ever got back.

When I opened the door, Esperanza, the Psychologist from Crownsville, explained to me that she was in Cuba to lend her assistance to the local hospices through the auspices of the International Red Cross.

Mrs. Costas explained my history to my old friend, and as the shock and horror registered on her face, I raised a twisted hand, pointed to her shirt and gurgled, Crownsville Hospital, Maryland. You work Dr. Pinto!

Esperanza gasped, placed her hands over her mouth and stared at me. I pointed to myself and slurred out, We friends at hospital. You come my party with Dr. Pinto and Carmen. Me safety officer, Jim.

Mrs. Costas was almost as surprised as Esperanza, with my speech, although I’d spoken to her before, but not quite as much. I’d kept my discussions with her to simple things like, Pain in head, Hungry, Need water, and go toilet.

My old friend stifled a shriek as she suddenly remembered me and realized that I’d been beaten almost beyond recognition by Castro’s men. She rushed to me, hugged me and promised that she’d do everything she could to help me.

Mrs. Costas warned her not to let anyone know that I was even alive, since she reported my death a few years ago to avoid having me taken away and thrown back in prison. She went on to say that I had been buried at sea by her brother who owned a fishing boat, and no one from the government ever questioned her about it.

The following day, Esperanza came to my room to begin what she called, survivors of torture therapy. It involved a lot of discussion, drawings and advice on how to deal with it. She didn’t like my habit of retreating to my dream world to escape from my current situation. But as I told her, there was no one I could talk to, and nothing I could do to keep myself occupied. She was even more upset to learn that I still couldn’t speak or understand Spanish after almost eight years.

I didn’t tell her that I now understood a hell of a lot more Spanish than I could speak. Since I was supposed to be brain damaged; how in the hell was I to engage anyone in a conversation so I could practice my Spanish. When I asked for physical therapy, she brought in another Spaniard; a physical therapist and he immediately understood my problem. I wasn’t getting enough carbohydrates and iron into my body, but he fixed that the following day with a supply of bread, pastas, rice and pills that I was to consume on a daily basis. The effects the change in my diet brought about was impressive and quick. Within a month I had extended my workouts to an hour without experiencing crippling fatigue. My muscle tone improved and I was definitely getting stronger.

To repay her for her many kindnesses, I wanted to help Mrs. Costas with work that needed to be done around the facility since her two teenagers had been drafted years ago and had not been replaced. Still afraid that I might be spotted, even on this secluded stretch of the coast, I did most of my work at night with the limited tools she had on hand. I must have sworn a million times that I would have been satisfied with even half of the wood working tools I had at home, but I did the best I could with the old, worn out and broken tools I found around the place.

Christmas was only two days away when I began feeling that terrible loneliness for my family again. I missed them all the time, but I was especially depressed around any of the holidays and birthdays. Esperanza did her best to pull me out of it, but I just told her to let me be until the holidays were over and then I’d pull myself out of it.

The night of the 23rd was moonless and cloudy; punctuated by passing showers. I really would have preferred to see snow at this time of the year, but fat chance that was ever going to happen. Elton John’s parents had a better chance of seeing grandkids from their son than I had of ever seeing snow again. The bad weather meant I was spending the night in my room, keeping company with my comatose roommate. The poor soul was dying of congestive heart failure at the age of 96. He’d led a long life, and from what I could tell, he was a deeply religious man, and had no family to come and see him before he passed on.

I was in the midst of remembering the first Christmas I’d spent with Rachel when I heard a soft knock at my door. The door opened slowly before I could get up, and I was shocked to see my