Annamite Haven: Vietnam POW-MIA Ultimate Survivor Odyssey Series, #5

By Don Price

Three Montagnard boys befriend and protect Tom MacLaine after he escapes off the Ho Chi Minh Trail in Laos. Trying to return to their home village, the boys encounter man-eating tigers and engage in deadly inter-tribal warfare along the way. MacLaine's second attempt to gain rescue from the Air Force ends in another tragedy, not of his making. Upon finally reaching the village, he must go before the village elders who will determine whether or not he can live with them in the remote mountains of Laos. 
Elizabeth learns Tom is free but lost in Laos. Much to her angry frustration, the Pentagon cannot help find his whereabouts. Meanwhile, she embarks on a hard-fought, mud-slinging political campaign for a seat in Congress. Behind in the polls from the outset, her chances of winning are in doubt. Nevertheless, she carries on like a true MacLaine. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Price
• Release date: Sep 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516381388

Don Price

Don Price is a retired Marine colonel who served 3 tours in Vietnam earning a Silver Star, 3 Bronze Stars w/V, a Purple Heart, 8 Air Medals, 3 Navy Commendation Medals w/V, and 3 Vietnamese Crosses of Gallantry. He taught English at the Naval Academy, graduated from the National War College, and commanded an infantry battalion on Okinawa. He is the author of The First Marine Captured in Vietnam, a biography of Medal of Honor recipient Donald Gilbert Cook published in 2007 by McFarland. Don lives in the heart of the Wild West, Cochise County, Arizona. His favorite quote comes from LtGen Ulysses S. Grant's dispatch (dated May 11, 1864) to Washington during the Battle of Spotsylvania Court House: "I propose to fight it out on this line, if it takes all summer."

Book preview

The Vietnam POW-MIA Ultimate Survivor Odyssey Series

Book Five

ANNAMITE HAVEN

Don Price

Text copyright @ 2015 Donald L Price and Arlene C Olszewski

All Rights Reserved

From the lonely shielings of the misty islands

Mountains divide us and a waste of seas

Yet still the blood is strong—the Heart is Highland

And we in dreams behold the Hebrides...

Canadian Boat Song

Table of Contents

Chapter 5-1 Survival Escape Resistance Evasion

Chapter 5-2 Political Warfare

Chapter 5-3 A River to Cross

Chapter 5-4 Brainstorming a Campaign

Chapter 5-5 Cavern Life

Chapter 5-6 Junior Who?

Chapter 5-7 Crash Site

Chapter 5-8 A Natural Annie Oakley

Chapter 5-9 Slash and Burn

Chapter 5-10 No Quit in Her

Chapter 5-11 A Trio of Tung

Chapter 5-12 A PACEX Present

Chapter 5-13 The American Casque

Chapter 5-14 Sworn on the Bible

Chapter 5-15 Malaria Dream

Chapter 5-16 Shawnee Campground Showdown

Chapter 5-17 Mother Lana Grazes

Chapter 5-18 Political Victory

Chapter 5-19 Tango Air Strike

Chapter 5-20 Greek Island

Chapter 5-21 Backside of Blue Mountain

Chapter 5-22 Godmother Beth

Chapter 5-23 Lepers and an Iron-Age Blacksmith

Chapter 5-24 Sam's Portrait

Chapter 5-25 The Chosen One

Chapter 5-26 Speaker Albert

Chapter 5-27 Lieutenant Commander Calvert

Prologue

While being marched north on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, Corporal Thomas MacLaine escaped his Viet Cong captors and headed east on foot into the mountains of Laos trying to reach Vietnam. He was soon befriended by three Montagnard youngsters named Bird, Fireboy, and Kid Goat from the Mru tribe.

The trio was returning to their home village after stealing communications wire from the North Vietnamese on the Ho Chi Minh Trail. The wire would be used to make animal snares and traps. The trio's successful theft of the wire would also make each boy eligible to become a warrior.

Accompanying them along the dangerous way home, MacLaine was amazed to see how easily they lived off the land. He learned even more about how to be an ultimate survivor in the Laotian hinterlands. He soon realized how fortunate he was to accepted and protected by the aborigines of the Annamite Cordillera between Laos and Vietnam.

Meanwhile, MacLaine's sister, Elizabeth ran for the US Congress. She attempted to gain West Virginia's Seventh District seat emptied upon the death of longtime Congressman Elmer Lovelady from Tecumseh County. Elizabeth formed a strong political team that worked hard for her, but she remained far behind in the polls. Her opponent was her former boss, Herman Manz, a powerful candidate sponsored by the long entrenched good-old-boys clique in her hometown of Phillipsville.

Chapter 5-1

Survival Escape Resistance Evasion

MacLaine's SERE instructors had taught him to use the word SURVIVAL as a memory prompter:

Size up your situation.

Undue haste makes waste.

Remember where you are.

Vanquish fear and panic.

Improvise.

Value living.

Act like the natives.

Learn basic skills.

MacLaine thought it a good idea to go through that survival checklist.

First, in sizing up his situation, he was in fairly good physical shape considering all he'd been through. He wasn't thirsty, tired, hungry, or injured. Granted, it was chilly in the mountains, but it sure beat the brain-baking heat of Vietnam. His bowels were tight, his malaria was in abeyance, and his wounded arm was no longer a problem. So far, he hadn't detected any symptoms in himself of the bad shit he'd seen in village sick calls like leprosy, beriberi, hepatitis, and encephalitis. Even his night vision was returning because of the better food he'd been eating since the day he entered Mrs. Bep's village back in Cambodia.

Mentally, he was doing okay, too. Although a backlash of anguish hit him when the Jolly Green failed to snatch him off the trail, he hadn't let it overwhelm him. In retrospect, he'd been lucky not to be aboard when the doomed chopper went down because all aboard undoubtedly perished.

In the future, there would be another time, day, and helicopter.

Meantime, he would never give up his goal of returning to the hills of home.

As for traveling with the Mru, they sure didn't make either undue haste or waste. No, Fireboy was leading them down the Tung's mountain like an experienced sailor, tacking the little party back and forth as the winds of danger dictated. Like Sergeant Starbuck Luong, the boy always seemed to be aware of the situation at hand and adjusted accordingly. The conservation of life was obviously more important to him than the passage of time. Fireboy didn't waste energy or perform any physical task unless he must, and then there was always a pragmatic reason. The boy's modus operandi would make it easier for MacLaine to stay up with the party.

Now where are you? he asked himself. You're not lost. You are somewhere but exactly where—you just don't know. North of Cambodia—yes. East of the Ho Chi Minh Trail—yes. In southeastern Laos—probably.

MacLaine remembered a term paper he researched and wrote for his high school geography class about the greatest rivers of the world. At over 2,600 miles in length, the mighty Mekong ranked right up there with the most important. The river's headwaters started on a high eastern Tibetan plateau above 16,000 feet, coursed out of China to separate Burma and Thailand from Laos, then through Cambodia and sprawled across Vietnam's rice-rich Mekong Delta to ultimately empty into the South China Sea.

Thus, if he went west instead of east of these mountains, he would eventually descend to the north bank of the muddy Mekong right across the river from Thailand—the Promised Land of R&R, friendly folks, and freedom birds to take him home.

Just as if he hiked westward across the mountains of home, he would eventually come down to the Ohio River. Either way—to the great Ohio or the mighty Mekong—the trip will be long and hard with many ball-busting mountains to climb.

But to the west were the dangerous death-dealing Pathet Lao, and he had already committed himself to heading east back into Vietnam. He knew he was just wasting his time in daydreaming about heading west toward Thailand.

Next on his survival list: Vanquish fear and panic. Easy to say but hard to do because fear is one thing and panic another. Fear is a tremendous motivator that helps one survive if controlled. Out of control, fear turns into panic that can't be reined back until it runs its frenzied course—until its despairing victim is physically and mentally exhausted to the point of helplessness and hopelessness.

MacLaine remembered a little ditty his Uncle Harley used to recite when he saw someone get flustered in a panic attack.

If in danger and in doubt

Don't run in circles

Scream and shout

But grab old panic

By his nose

Turn him 'round

And out he goes

Then deal with the danger

And swallow your doubt

And you'll be a man

Roundabout

Next: Forego your Western frame of reference and allow your mind to change the same old view of your environment. Open your intellect to improvisations. Perceive like never before.

A banana leaf is a wrapper. A turtle shell a bowl. A monkey a meal. A conch a horn. A rock a weapon. A vine a string. A stick a cane. And a fire is not only a source of heat and light, but also a signal of human life if built in the right place at the right time of night.

Next: Value living means valuing your life and always trying to get the most out of it. Since escaping off the trail, your living conditions have improved. Now don't do anything stupid that will lead to your recapture. Remember, your worst day as a guest of the Mru brothers is far better than your best day as a guest of the National Liberation Front.

Next: Act like the natives. Look at your surroundings through your West Virginia forefathers' eyes. They looked for salt before gold. To them, common salt was not just so much crystallized brine—it was essential to pioneer life itself. Without salt, they couldn't cure and preserve meat, turn hide into clothing, glaze ceramics, or check their craving for the scarcest and most needed mineral in the mountains.

Once their craving for salt was satisfied, they looked at the different trees that meant different things to them in terms of food, shelter, and fuel. That's why they planted fruit trees, Hewe's crab apple being the best for producing a first-rate clear, dry cider. They felled chestnut, white oak, cedar, and fir trees to build log cabins. Those types provided long, straight, rot-resistant logs. They chopped down ash trees for firewood. Ash was the best at producing both heat and flames and burned well even if green.

They saw game in a different way, too. The black bear was not a bear to them, but a source of meat, grease, rugs, and bedding. The buck deer was meat, clothing, and horns for handles. The coon was material for a fine hat.

Learn basic skills. He knew from both his Marine and Boy Scout training that learning was doing. The more often you did something, the easier, quicker, and better it becomes. Like Fireboy's skill in the use of flint and steel.

Finally, think positive and be thankful and happy with what you have. Your restored health. Your three new and helpful traveling companions. And most important, your freedom. So, jarhead, look to the future and not into the past.

* * *

From behind, the still powerful Caleb Langtree grabbed Jake Chisholm's jacket collar with one hand and his black leather belt with the other, and slammed the big drunken man out the swinging doors like a blocking dummy.

Everyone in the Blue and Gray cheered.

Caleb did not return right away. But when he did come back in, he looked like he'd just come from church without a ruffle in his shirt.

Elizabeth guessed that Caleb had escorted Jake clear out of the Mountaineer Arms and into the street. That was fine with her.

Patsy Cline swung into Crazy as Sam continued to waltz her around the small dance floor as if nothing unusual had happened at all. His coolness didn't surprise her anymore. In fact, she seemed to gain strength from his uncanny ability not to let untoward events bother him. He was definitely a flat-liner.

Then to her horror, she saw Jake kick open the swinging doors and stagger back in with a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun in his hands.

All the bar patrons dropped to the floor except Caleb Langtree who pointed his finger at Jake, and said, Mr. Jacob Chisholm, put that illegal thing down right now before somebody gets hurt.

No old nigger like you in the MacLaine woodpile is gonna do me thataway and get away with it, Jake shouted, and unloaded both barrels with a boom into Caleb Langtree's chest.

Vera Jean screamed as Caleb fell back hard against the wall and sank to the floor with his hands over his heart.

Jake looked at the prostrate and terrified bar customers, and said, He was one of them two nigger brothers who trespassed on Chisholm property over yonder in Greenbrier County. Jake broke open the shotgun's smoking breach, popped out the spent shells, and dropped them on the floor. Them two uppity jigaboos done kidnapped my little bro Gobbler like he was some kinda KKK trophy buck. Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out two new shells.

Before Jake could reload, Sam raced out of the darkness. With a hop and a skip in his stride, he kicked out his long right leg like an extended battering ram, and caught Jake in the solar plexus with the heel of his new penny loafer, knocking him backward to the floor.

Sam said, No more N-words or shooting for you, pal, and then jerked the shotgun out of his hands. Taking it by the barrel, Sam proceeded to beat Jake's head into unconsciousness.

At this point Deputy Dominic Pellegrino charged through the door with his big Ruger .44-Magnum in hand, looked at the two bodies on the floor, and declared, Damn, I'm too late to do nothin'.

Sam came back to their table, grabbed Elizabeth's shaking hand, and said, Let's go.

I can't just leave Caleb like this, she sobbed.

I understand, he whispered. I've still got your car keys. I'm going back to the farm to get my rental and go. I can't be involved in another murder.

No, just take my Mustang and keep on going.

Impossible, because all my gear, pistol, money belt, and official orders are in the Dodge's trunk.

Okay, then the shortest way out of the county's jurisdiction is south via White Sulphur Springs, then take I-64 West.

I hate to say good-bye to you like this, Beth, but I've got to go.

I understand, and I love you, Samuel Solveig Sparkman.

And I love you, Elizabeth Cady Phillips MacLaine.

Elizabeth took off his POW-MIA bracelet and handed it to Sam while silently praying his sudden departure was not a rehearsal for his death in Vietnam.

* * *

Fireboy led them hopping from rock to rock across the creek, and then on an almost lung-bursting climb up the far side of the steep ravine.

MacLaine realized Fireboy was not leading them out the same way they came in—a basic scouting and patrolling tactic. Never go back on the same route you came out on or you'll find the enemy waiting in ambush for you. Yeah buddy. How many French and American patrol leaders had learned that the hard way in Vietnam? Way too many if the truth was known.

When the little party topped out of the ravine, Fireboy called a halt so they could catch their breaths.

MacLaine turned and looked back down at the swift-running stream that reminded him of home. He thought he saw the glitter of gold in the bottom of one shallow pool. At that moment, he decided to give the stream a Western name: Nugget Creek.

We go, Fireboy whispered, and led them downward into the forest.

When the stream's rushing noise could no longer be heard, Fireboy signaled another halt and motioned them to lie down, while he stood like a statue, sniffing the air and listening, his head swiveling slowly as he scanned around.

MacLaine stared at Fireboy's tense face, looking for some indication of what the alert boy might be ascertaining.

Then he saw that familiar uptight feral look come over the boy's face that he'd seen before. His nostrils flared, his eyes narrowed in appraisal but his lips did not curl away from his teeth this time, yet his brow compressed into the usual V-shape.

Fireboy's mind was obviously focused in deep concentration, his sensory perceptions wide open and gathering as much information as possible about their surroundings.

At length, Fireboy's edgy face relaxed, but not much.

He motioned them to stand and follow him deeper into the forest where he started angling down the mountainside.

In less than half an hour, the underbrush began to thin, and they came to the outskirts of a clearing and kneeled in the wet ferns and knee-deep grass.

MacLaine could not see how big the clearing was and wondered if it might make a good helicopter-landing zone. He saw Fireboy bend and creep forward like a tomcat after a mouse and disappear from view. The boy definitely knew how to move with extreme stealth.

Before long, Fireboy reappeared, spread his fingers into a peace sign, and flicked the vee above his forehead.

MacLaine thought either he was signaling the prongs of a goat or the horns of a deer but wasn't sure which.

* * *

The next morning, a shaken Elizabeth and a calm Devorah sat in the campaign headquarters drinking coffee as they read Devorah's article in the Clarion.

Elizabeth looked at headline.

CALEB LANGTREE SLAIN in

MOUNTAINEER ARMS MURDER

Elizabeth read the article, and then said, Thanks for not mentioning Sam by name, Dev.

To say an unknown patron disarmed and subdued Chisholm is enough, she replied.

Sam's name will come out in the trial anyway.

Even then I do not have to print his name, Devorah said, because the focus will still be on the KKK versus black issue if I have my editorial way.

I just hope the Marine Corps authorities don't find out Sam was involved, Elizabeth said, finger rolling a tress of hair.

Why not? Captain Sam was a hero again. No one else would go near Jake from what I was told by the witnesses last night.

Still, Dev, it just doesn't look good.

Yes, but my papa says good often comes out of bad.

Where's the good in this mess? Maude has lost her husband, and Tonya her father. Sam had to split without even giving me a kiss, let alone us making love. And my hotel is on your front page looking like a haunted house with a fine upstanding citizen's blood on the barroom floor.

I agree, Devorah said, "that is muy malo but remember who pled pro bono before the parole board for Jake's release from prison."

Ah, you're right, little one, Herman Manz did his parole-board thing.

Yes, and I intend to get a complete transcript of his pleadings because the hearings are open to the public.

I would be interested to see what Manz had to say about Jake's qualifications for parole.

So would everyone in Tecumseh County, Devorah said, grinning like an impish elf from Hell, "and that is why I plan to print every word that dumb cabrone uttered to help set Jake free to commit this horrible crime."

Oh, wow, why didn't I think about that?

You are too busy thinking about where Sam is now, while I am busy thinking about how to sell newspapers.

You're right, but I just wish he would call and check in at least.

* * *

With his crossbow at the ready, Bird crept wordlessly past Fireboy and disappeared.

MacLaine knew the hunt was on for some type of game, and he hoped it was deer. He hadn't had a taste of venison since he dined at the jolly station tender's table. That's when he'd been delighted to find strips of barbecued venison laying across a bed of hot sticky rice on his battered aluminum plate. Just thinking of that meal made him salivate like a starving man.

Then MacLaine heard a dog bark, Bird whistle, and saw Fireboy stand and stride forward with Kid Goat at his heels.

MacLaine followed and was glad to see that the empty clearing was large and flat enough to make an ideal landing zone, maybe even a parachute drop zone.

He saw Bird reloading his crossbow and assumed the little hunter had fired at least one of his tiny poisoned arrows at whatever Fireboy had seen.

Fireboy and Bird engaged in a short whispered conversation. Bird pointed his crossbow at the ground and then toward the far tree line. Fireboy nodded and signaled them to follow him.

Crossing the open ground, MacLaine made a mental note that it was located on the north side of Nugget Creek, about five-hundred meters down and away from the ravine's lip.

When they reentered the forest, MacLaine could smell the distinct musk-gland secretion of a deer.

Shortly, Fireboy signaled another halt and kneeled to examine some petite droppings that were so fresh they steamed. He sniffed the droppings, smiled, and nodded his approval. Swiping his hand across his throat, he signaled that the deer was dying from the poison and led them deeper into the forest.

Judging from the size of both the droppings and the tracks, MacLaine figured they were following a fawn.

Within another half an hour, he was proved wrong.

The dead deer was an adult male lying on its side beneath a towering teak tree with a tiny arrow sticking out of its thin neck. He judged the pygmy-sized buck to weigh less than forty pounds and stand under two-feet tall. Its short, soft coat was a reddish-brown chestnut color that tapered into creamy white on its chin, neck, and belly. The buck's pale-tan face featured a black nose and forehead with two dark raised ridges that extended into a pair of single-pronged antlers no more than three or four inches long. The antlers curled backward like a mountain goat's horns.

Seeing the small antlers, MacLaine now knew what the peace sign Fireboy flicked above his forehead meant. He was surprised to see the buck's tusk-like teeth were honed like a dog's and sharp. Well, he thought, it did make sense for a barking deer to have canine choppers.

MacLaine watched as Fireboy pulled out his bayonet and cut the buck's throat to bleed it.

The calm youngster rolled the tiny buck belly up and commenced to expertly gut their next meal.

MacLaine wondered if the fresh venison would taste tainted from the poison, and hoped it would not.

Within seconds, Fireboy rolled the buck back on its side and spilled its warm entrails onto the ground.

MacLaine noted he did not pick out the heart, kidney, or liver, and guessed all the poison had ended up in those organs.

* * *

Early the next morning, Elizabeth was pleased to see a somber Tonya Langtree stroll through the door of her campaign headquarters.

Elizabeth got up, embraced her friend, and said, I am so sorry about your brave sweet father, dear.

No doubt my daddy would want me to carry on and help you, Tonya said, because this old Tecumseh County KKK business has got to stop.

"You're right, Tonya, you are right."

My momma told me to keep a stiff upper lip and get back to work.

How is she doing?

She went back to work, too.

You Langtrees are amazing.

Yes, and now I want to help you, Beth—to amaze, astound, and astonish the Seventh District's electorate with a campaign they have never seen the likes of in West Virginia politics before.

Now, you're talking hon.

Yes, Beth, and I swear on my daddy's soul we are going to beat Herman Manz like a dime-store drum because he is the bastard who helped set Jake Chisholm free.

Right, and let me tell you what Devorah Cohen has in mind.

Who is Devorah Cohen?

Let me order a pot of coffee for us, and then I'll fill you in on that little dynamo, and how she plans to play our opening gambit against Manz and his good old boys.

* * *

That afternoon as the sun started to set, Fireboy, carrying the buck's carcass on his shoulders, led them up a darkening hollow filled with a tall, mountain variety of sturdy bamboo.

From experience, MacLaine knew this was a good place to hide because they could not be approached by anyone without being alerted by the hollow sounds of bumped bamboo, particularly at night, when sound travels farther than in the day.

Fireboy picked out a secure spot to camp deep in the hollow. With Kid Goat's help, he commenced to skin and quarter the carcass while Bird went in search of dry firewood. From the canvas bag on his hip, Fireboy pulled forth a small leather pouch. He reached inside the pouch for repeated pinches of what appeared to be a mixture of salt and some assorted spices that he sprinkled on the raw meat.

By the time Bird returned with an armload of wood, Fireboy had bent down a thin green bamboo pole like a crane and sharpened its tip. He then skewered the venison upon it. Within minutes, he had a brisk fire going beneath the meat that began to sizzle and smoke.

The trio's remarkable teamwork again impressed MacLaine. Boy Scouts could not have cooperated any better. Each boy had a job to do, and they did it well. Yes, indeed, they sure knew how to work together.

When the fire burned down, Fireboy bent the bamboo lower until the venison was just above the smoldering embers. The roasting had hardened the meat's exterior and helped retain the juices within. Now the meat was cooking for sure, and its savory barbecue aroma caused MacLaine's mouth to water in anticipation.

Notwithstanding his gnawing hunger, MacLaine was still concerned about the latent poison in the buck's system. He was relieved to see how well the meat was being cooked and told himself that he shouldn't worry. Undoubtedly, the boys had learned their hunting and cooking skills from their forebears who had passed them down for generations. The Mru probably didn't know the chemical properties of the poison, but certainly knew its effects on man and beast. They would not be using the poison if it hadn't been time-tested for decades—if not centuries—and proved safe for human consumption.

* * *

Late the next morning, Stella called Elizabeth at her campaign headquarters and said, Beth, there's some lady Marine tryin' to reach you from California.

A lady Marine?

Well, she sure don't sound like no man, but I ain't for certain if she's a Marine or not.

Okay, put her through.

Miss MacLaine, this is Captain Heather Tackett calling from Travis Air Force Base outside San Francisco.

Yes, Elizabeth said, feeling that same old dread caused by another bolt-from-the-blue call from an unknown Marine and a female no less.

I'm the officer in charge of the Marine Liaison and Travel Office here at Travis.

I see, Elizabeth said, her heart starting to flutter.

Captain Sam Sparkman asked me to call you once he was airborne.

Oh?

We got him a seat aboard a Vietnam-bound bird last night around two a.m., and he wanted me to call you this morning to tell you he'd made it out of country okay.

Where is he now? Elizabeth asked, feeling a mixture of sadness and relief. Sad that Sam was going back to Vietnam, but relieved that he was beyond Tecumseh County's jurisdiction—well beyond.

By now he's passed through Elmendorf Air Force Base in Alaska, will next land in Japan, and then on into Saigon.

So, Captain Tackett, he's somewhere over the Bering Sea?

Yes, and asleep I'd bet because he drove from White Sulphur Springs to here in three days, and that's over 2,600 miles.

Good grief, Sam must have been exhausted when he got there, Elizabeth said, wondering how many extra miles he had to drive by heading south to White Sulphur Springs to get out of the state on I-64.

He appeared to be a little tired but was not up tight and irritable like many transient personnel I see passing through here these days.

Irritable?

Oh yes, I've seen some bad scenes with guys—disgruntled careerists for the most part—headed back for their second or sometimes third involuntary tours in Vietnam. Getting too drunk to get on an airplane is the tactic of choice to miss a scheduled flight.

I wouldn't want your job, Heather.

No one else does either.

Guess what. You're the first woman Marine I've ever talked to.

I've heard that before.

I'm sure you have, Heather, and if you ever get back here near the East Coast, I would like to talk with you about women in the military.

Well, I just got orders to the Amphibious Warfare School at Quantico, Virginia, and will report there this August.

Super, and if I'm lucky, I'll be in DC by this fall.

* * *

When the embers had at last died into ashes, Fireboy let the meat cool until it could be handled.

With his bayonet, he stabbed a piece at a time and handed them around.

Fireboy gave a haunch to MacLaine who found the meat to be delicious. Whatever spices Fireboy had used, they sure brought out the flavor. Never had he tasted such delectable venison. Not even in the hills of home.

As he ate, MacLaine thought about home. He wished that he could let his family know he was much better off than before—thanks to Fireboy and his two little brothers. Yes, life was still hard but bearable now. His life had certainly changed, and he sensed lives at home had changed, too. He wondered how everyone was getting along these days.

Was Daddy still preaching the word? Was Uncle Harley still raising hell? Was Elizabeth still prosecuting bad guys, and tearing up the road in her red Mustang? Was she still looking for a boyfriend who knew how to use a stick shift?

He thought about Sandra and their baby. She must be getting big by now and into maternity dresses. He wondered if the baby would be a boy or girl.

MacLaine wished he had some bread to go along with the lip-smacking venison.

Then he remembered Lance Warfield's insatiable craving for bread that had led his good captain to quit eating rice. The captain's psychological inability to eat rice had, in turn, forced him through death's door far too soon in his young life.

MacLaine remembered what Rondeaux once told him about his fellow prisoners after the fall of Dien Bien Phu: The Europeans among us craved wheat bread, as most Caucasians do in Asian captivity. Many of them died. Only a few of the wounded survived.

MacLaine said a silent prayer asking God to help him not develop a craving for wheat bread. Bread may be the staff of life in the West, but not in Southeast Asia. If the Mru could get along without bread, he could too.

Chapter 5-2

––––––––

Political Warfare

The next morning, Elizabeth, Tonya, and Hugh Stewart sat in the MacLaine campaign headquarters drinking coffee as they read Devorah's lead editorial in the Clarion. Elizabeth looked at the title.

The chisholm parole: who is responsible?

Elizabeth read the editorial.

The citizens of Tecumseh County deserve an explanation from Mr. Herman Manz as to why he so strongly supported the parole of Mr. Jacob Chisholm from prison. Within days of his release from Moundsville state penitentiary, Chisholm has been charged in the senseless murder of Mr. Caleb Langtree, a much-respected husband and father who will be sorely missed by one and all in our community. For Mr. Langtree to be taken from us when he was only trying to protect others from the shotgun-wielding Chisholm is a tragedy that will not be soon forgotten.

Although Chisholm will be tried for murder in the days ahead, Manz will not be in the docket with him to answer some questions that the public needs answered.

First, why did Manz assure the parole board that Chisholm would be gainfully employed by him if set free to once again walk the peaceful streets of Phillipsville?

Second, what so-called work was Chisholm performing for Boss Manz when Mr. Langtree was so unmercifully slain?

Third, why did Boss Manz choose to support only Chisholm's parole and not any other Tecumseh County convicts who have appeared before the parole board in the past?

In light of Boss Manz's current campaign for Congress, the above questions need to be answered in order that the voters might get a better perspective as to his qualifications in terms of judgment, trustworthiness, and above all his sense of honor when it comes to what is right and wrong.

If Boss Manz cannot quickly and honestly answer the above questions in a candid and forthright manner, then it might be time for the voters to look elsewhere for someone to represent their best interests in Washington.

The Clarion looks forward to publishing Boss Manz's answers to these troubling questions in the not too distant future.

In the meantime, we hope our readers will gain some insight into Boss Manz's questionable motives by reading the full and unedited proceedings of the parole board hearing in a series starting tomorrow in the Clarion.

I love it, Elizabeth said. Boss Manz. What a fitting sobriquet."

Yes, Tonya agreed. We decided last night to hang that negative sign around his fat neck.

We? Elizabeth asked in surprise. Did you help Devorah write this?

Of course, Tonya replied.

"Mon Dieu! What if someone finds out you and Dev collaborated?"

At ease, Elizabeth, Hugh ordered. Remember, politics is like war. You must take risks to catch your enemy off-guard and go for his center of gravity. In Manz's case, it's his lack of integrity. If we can show the public that he is mean, selfish, corrupt, unpatriotic and dishonorable, then Tonya and I have done our job. If not, you lose. It's that simple.

Wow, now I understand why Simon Proctor got cold feet all of a sudden, Elizabeth said.

Cold feet? Hugh asked eyeing her with concern. Wait a minute—are you going to hang tough or not?

Don't get me wrong, Hugh, I'm in for the long haul.

Then don't talk like that in the future, Hugh replied. You may think like that from time to time, but never voice your fears in front of your subordinates because it's demoralizing.

I understand, and it won't happen again.

That's better, Hugh said, since this editorial could be the point of the wedge that we drive between Manz and his good old boys.

I see, Elizabeth said.

If he can't answer these questions without spouting a barrage of his usual bullshit, then one of his bubbas might decide to break ranks. We must be on the lookout for that first one. When he heads south, we've got to bring him into our camp and set him up as a positive example that the others can follow to your colors.

Clarence Stringfellow might be the one, Elizabeth said.

Good, we'll keep an eye on him, Hugh said, and now I want you to remember that you did, in fact, work for Horny Herman at one time so it would sound perfectly natural to the voters for you to refer to him as Boss Manz.

From now on, Boss Manz he is, Elizabeth said.

Right, Hugh said, because an innuendo is a powerful weapon if used right, and that name will conjure up all that is bad in the history of American politics and in West Virginia's coal-mine and union wars as well.

I'd forgotten about the historical angle, Elizabeth said.

Moreover, Tonya said, to put that odious label on him almost assures us that the miners will not vote for the pompous bastard no matter how much he natters on about getting more black lung help for them.

It's amazing, Elizabeth mused, how much clout we get out of a three-hundred word editorial.

That's the raw power of the free press at work, Hugh said, and the beauty of it is none of our fingerprints are on the editorial.

What do you two think Manz will do? Elizabeth asked, looking back and forth between her brilliant black-beauty PhD and her WASP Marine-attorney major.

Hugh nodded to Tonya who said, With his overblown ego, he will cry 'foul' at Devorah, and we'll know we are getting to him.

What goes around comes around, Elizabeth said, because Horny Herman used to have Joab Yoakum trash yours truly in print anytime he could. or at least not give equal coverage to my family and me.

"Elizabeth, don't call him Horny Herman because his name is now Boss Manz," Hugh reminded.

Sorry, Boss Manz—what's your take, Hugh?

We've put him on the horns of a dilemma. If he doesn't answer the questions, Dev will keep on asking them over and over, and add new ones.

But what if he does answer the questions?

Simple, Hugh replied. Dev will just nitpick his answers to death, and then ask for follow-on information and amplification in addition to asking more questions.

So we put him into a back-to-the-wall responding mode? Elizabeth asked.

Exactly, Hugh said, "and we'll give him no slack. Every time he opens the Clarion, he'll find another letter to the editor posing more questions about him, his character, and his qualifications for office. Of course, we'll ghostwrite the letters for our staunch supporters' signatures."

Right on, Tonya said, and let's paint that degenerate with a dissolute Chisholm brush. Turn him into a bootlegger and a card-carrying member of the Ku Klux Klan. Etch his image as a de facto Chisholm elder in the public's eye. Make Jake his surrogate son.

Couldn't happen to a nicer guy, Elizabeth said.

Okay, now that we've decided how to deal with Manz, let's move on to more substantive matters. Hugh eyed Elizabeth. Candidate MacLaine, we're still waiting for you to define your principal theme, electorate targets, and the under girding of your overall platform.

"I know, Hugh, but I've been so busy with Sam Sparkman stopping by, and . . .

I know, but you've got to start leading us Elizabeth, Hugh insisted, because no on else can. You are the candidate, and you've got to get off the dime. The election is only weeks away, and we are not even showing in the polls yet.

Keep in mind three other factors, too, Tonya said, when you put your platform together.

Lay them on me, Elizabeth said, and picked up a pencil to take notes.

First, Tonya began is the Seventh District's physical makeup that cannot be changed. The rugged geography of Appalachia is what it is—steep hills and small valleys that make agriculture and livestock subsidiary undertakings at best.

You're talking to a farm girl, Tonya.

And your farm has always been a family enterprise, Tonya said, that fed the MacLaines and not much more.

Come to think of it, you're right.

Yes, and second, remember the district's economy is directly related to its natural resources—coal, timber, and natural gas, Tonya continued, and third is our mountain society—the unique social characteristics of our people.

We are just like anybody else, Elizabeth said.

As human beings we are, Tonya agreed, but as Americans we're not because we have some of the lowest family incomes, highest unemployment rates, and lowest voter registration and turnout records in the country. In all these key indicators, our Seventh Congressional District is the worst off by far of all seven districts in our home state.

It's sad but true, Elizabeth admitted, yet we are God-fearing people.

Yes, Tonya agreed, we West Virginians are a good independent and self-reliant rural people, and as such we depend upon ourselves and not any form of government to provided our basic necessities. We tend to see much is dictated by the seasons, and are inclined to have faith in the natural order of things. Mountaineer men in particular are dubious when it comes to the government getting into their private business—whiskey stills for instance.

Dubious if not deadly, Elizabeth said.

Yes, indeed, Tonya agreed, and those three variables—geography, resources, and people—weave together our electorate's social fabric and economic and political lives.

Well, we can't change the geography.

To a degree we can, Beth, with new roads, bridges, airports, and even dams.

That takes big bucks.

No one said this would be easy, Hugh reminded.

Okay, what about the coal glut? With all the cheap western coal available, we don't seem to be able to give our coal away.

We've got to move beyond coal, Tonya said.

To where? Elizabeth asked.

Light manufacturing.

Of what?

We have some of the finest timber in the world, yet we let big outside companies come into our backyard and turn our wood into pulp and paper, Tonya said. "Either that or we ship it out of the state to be used in