Forget Not One: Vietnam POW-MIA Ultimate Survivor Odyssey Series, #1

By Don Price

Forget Not One is about one courageous 20-year old Marine who was captured in 1970 in a South Vietnam mangrove swamp. Corporal Thomas MacLaine is an Eagle Scout who is fluent in Vietnamese. His sister, Elizabeth, is a country lawyer from West Virginia who has an enduring faith in him to survive. 
Their day-to-day lives are intertwined as they struggle to cope with Thomas first being declared ‘missing-in-action’ and later a wounded ‘prisoner-of-war.’ Together they forge an inseparable bond of life-affirming hope in body, mind and spirit. They pursue his ultimate freedom as the mutual quest foremost in their lives. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Price
• Release date: Sep 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516365074

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

Chapter 1

Thomas and Elizabeth

When he regained consciousness, Corporal Thomas Paine MacLaine found himself still sprawled on the mangrove-swamp mudflat in the middle of the Ca Sau River, and sensed he was no longer alone.

He took a labored breath of humid monsoon air, and then focused through swollen eyes on a stocky Viet Cong standing over him.

The calm guerrilla had planted one of his muddy bare feet on the young Marine's chest, holding him down as easily as a turtle turned on its back.

Intense pain from MacLaine's wounds, combined with his fiery thirst, confirmed his predicament was no fantasy. Alert enough now to look around for a way out, he spotted two more black-pajama-clad guerrillas crouched a few yards away, ready to pounce. He knew from training and experience that when two or three allow themselves to be seen, many well-concealed others are nearby.

Outnumbered and outgunned, MacLaine accepted his grim fate. Everything had changed again for him. He was now a prisoner-of-war. Captured without a fight. Without a shot fired, or even a knife drawn by his silent captors, or himself.

The day of the ambush had been MacLaine's worst so far in Vietnam. Today promised to be even worse.

What was in store for him? he wondered. Maybe the cold-eyed guerrilla staring down at him would simply shoot him, since he was so badly wounded, or just cut his throat to save a bullet.

Sure, he thought, a sharp machete's slash would make no noise to attract the American SEAL platoon operating close to where the disastrous ambush had been sprung.

MacLaine began a silent prayer for his freedom, shutting out his fear of never returning to his family's West Virginia farm, while sensing his ultimate deliverance would come from the sky.

* * *

With her dutiful cairn terrier, Jojo, at her side, Elizabeth heard her father's Bluetick coonhounds howling in their warm kennel behind the family farmhouse. Mentally exhausted, the freshman lawyer had spent almost all weekend making the final preparations for her first court case as the deputy county prosecutor, and decided to take a Sunday afternoon break to share a cup of tea with her father.

Waiting for the teapot to boil, she peered through the kitchen's frosted side window, and saw the bird feeder where a pair of cardinals pecked at sunflower seeds. She gazed at the bright-red male with its cute black face, then at the buff-brown female with its red-tinged crest, wings and tail.

My my, she mused, their colors contrast so beautifully with the snow, but why isn't the female our state bird?

As Elizabeth looked beyond the bird feeder and across the fallow snow-covered fields, she spotted an automobile exit the Powhatan Valley River's quaint covered bridge, enter their open farm gate and head up the road to the massive, three-story, gray-fieldstone house occupied by the MacLaine family for over 150 years.

She did not recognize the vehicle. Perhaps a member of her father's congregation coming to visit? Or maybe someone in need of directions?

The car—a forest-green Plymouth sedan—drew closer in the light swirling snow.

Her body began to tingle in anticipation.

As the car entered their yard, Elizabeth could see that the driver, who was alone, was wearing a uniform complete with a shiny black-visored cap.

Her breathing became uneven.

The stranger slipped the Plymouth in between her Mustang convertible and her father's old black 1954 Ford pickup parked beside the ancient oak tree in front of the house.

U.S. MARINE CORPS FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY glared in large yellow letters on the driver's door.

Elizabeth gave an involuntary start.

"Mon Dieu!" she gasped as if an invisible hand had slapped her face. She stared at the sedan but couldn't stand the sight of it. Tearing herself away from the window, she glanced down at Jojo. Her little wheaten-colored terrier wagged his tail, cocked his head to one side, and looked up at her with his alert agate-brown eyes.

I just know it, Jojo, she said, something has happened to Tommy.

Elizabeth wanted to run into the cellar and hide. She knew it was bound to be bad news but her feet seemed frozen to the floor.

Instead, she made herself look out the window again to see the visitor, a lanky, good-looking young white guy, about her own age—mid 20's—ease out of the driver's door, carrying a black briefcase and gloves. He wore a forest-green overcoat with twin silver bars on each shoulder. She assumed he was an officer of some kind.

Oh, Lord, please keep Tommy alive, she said, because my brother is too young to die in such a stupid war.

Behind her, the teakettle steamed into a shrill whistle. She turned it off and hurried through the house to the front hallway with Jojo trotting along behind her. Elizabeth's long legs trembled as she opened the front door, before the tall visitor had a chance to ring the bell, and looked him full in the face. His eyes were clear, wide-set, and icy-pale blue.

Mrs. MacLaine? he asked in an agonized tone, and removed his hat, revealing a blond crewcut.

No, my mother is deceased.

Elizabeth's knees buckled She fought to maintain her balance and stand straight just like Tommy would want her to.

I'm Captain Samuel Sparkman, ma'am.

Don't call me ma'am.

I beg your pardon, he said as polite as a prince.

I'm Elizabeth MacLaine—Thomas Paine's sister.

Her fear faucet was wide-open now.

May I come in?

I guess I have to let you in, she said in resignation, her heart drumming. It's my brother, isn't it?

He nodded and whispered, I'm afraid so, Miss MacLaine.

Elizabeth felt as if a strong wind had blown her aback.

The jaunty Jojo sat up straight in his self-taught begging position, facing the Marine, his front paws together as if praying for both food and attention.

The Marine reached down and patted the cairn's tousled head.

Hello, Toto, he said, you're sure a long way from Kansas.

His name is Jojo, Elizabeth corrected him in a sharp tone.

The Marine looked at her as impassively as a dying priest.

Is your father home? he asked, almost in a whisper.

A cold fish seemed ready to flip in her stomach.

Yes—he's in the den.

Elizabeth pointed down the baronial country hallway adorned with the MacLaine clan's heraldic coat-of-arms and generations of MacLaine family paintings, pictures, diplomas, degrees, and high-school athletic letters.

Does your father have any health problems, such as a heart ailment? the Marine asked in an emotionless monotone.

Oh, Sweet Jesus, Elizabeth thought. No, he's as healthy as Methuselah. She had no idea why she was being so darned polite to this bad-news bear.

Should a minister be present? he asked.

Elizabeth's legs felt as wobbly as a pair of Slinkys.

One will be. My Father. He is also a man of the cloth. Most folks in Tecumseh County refer to him as 'Reverend MacLaine.'

Get yourself together, sister, she told herself, because you have to be strong for father's sake and for Tommy's, too.

Reverend it is, the Marine said.

Elizabeth saw the young officer inhale, set his square, close-shaven jaw and nod toward the hallway.

She led him past the sewing room, music room, and the family library. As she ushered him into the warm and spacious family den, her body radiated heat when she caught the fragrance of his Old Spice aftershave lotion.

Reverend Grant Angus MacLaine sat in his La-Z-Boy Reclina-Rocker, custom upholstered in the MacLaine clan's dress tartan of blue, scarlet and charcoal plaid. He was tying trout flies while listening to the Chicago Mercantile Exchange futures report on his old Grundig 960 radio. Before him, a brisk fire crackled in an open fieldstone fireplace.

Father, may I introduce Marine Captain Samuel Sparkman who has some news about Tommy?

The reverend eyed their visitor, picked up his dog-eared family Bible, but did not speak, apparently not wanting to acknowledge the Marine's presence.

Elizabeth held her hand tightly over her mouth and watched Captain Sparkman break the bad news.

Reverend MacLaine, he said, I represent the Commandant of the Marine Corps who has sent me here to tell you about your son, Corporal Thomas P. MacLaine.

Elizabeth's hand helped keep her shivering insides in check.

He's not dead, the reverend said, as if he already knew what the captain would say next.

No sir, but I regret to inform you he has been MIA—missing-in-action since the ninth of November.

The letters MIA seared into Elizabeth's brain—missing-in-action!

Terrible, terrible, she thought, but at least he's not dead, thank the Lord.

How so? Reverend MacLaine asked, turning off the news about pork-belly prices. We just received a letter from Thomas postmarked by the fleet post office in San Francisco on the tenth, telling us of his wife's pregnancy. My son said he was doing just fine and not to worry.

I'm sorry, sir, Captain Sparkman said. Here's all the official information I have.

Captain Sparkman reached into his briefcase and handed Reverend MacLaine a Xeroxed copy of a Western Union telegram.

The reverend adjusted his bifocals and started reading the telegram aloud.

13 November 1970

Deliver by hand.

Do not phone.

Mrs. Thomas P. MacLaine

1369 Haight St.

San Francisco, California

Dear Mrs. MacLaine,

I deeply regret to inform you that your husband, Corporal Thomas P. MacLaine, became missing-in-action on 9 November 1970 while on a riverine combat operation in the Republic of Vietnam. Extensive search operations are underway and every effort is being made to locate him.

Elizabeth's eyes filled with tears.

Hold on, daughter, Reverend MacLaine said, and continued reading:

It is suggested you refrain from furnishing any person outside your immediate family with any background information about your husband's personal history, or military service.

Reverend MacLaine's voice cracked, reading:

Release of such information could adversely affect his health and welfare since hostile forces may use it for coercion and propaganda purposes.

Reverend MacLaine removed his bifocals, stared up at Sparkman, and said, So this means my son has been captured?

No sir, Corporal MacLaine is presently unaccounted for.

You mean lost, Elizabeth said.

Yes—lost, Sparkman said.

Holding the telegram aloft Reverend MacLaine said, Does this mean torture, too?

Yes sir, based on the news out of Hanoi, I'm afraid it could mean mistreatment.

Reverend MacLaine shook his head, handed the telegram to Elizabeth, and whispered, Please finish for me, darling.

Elizabeth swallowed hard, her vocal chords quivered, but she read anyway:

You are assured that any significant information gained about your husband will be promptly sent to you. On behalf of the United States Marine Corps, I extend to you our sincerest sympathy during this period of profound anxiety.

Sincerely,

Leonard F. Chapman

General, US Marine Corps

Commandant of the Marine Corps

With trembling hands, Elizabeth wadded the telegram into a ball and threw it into the fireplace.

No one spoke.

Excuse me, son, Reverend MacLaine said, but just what is a riverine operation?

Sparkman said, A dozen or so small gunboats and troop-landing craft are used to secure and patrol an important swamp area or vital tributary in the Mekong River Delta—the rice bowl of South Vietnam.

I see, Reverend MacLaine said, nodding.

The den grew quiet again until Elizabeth turned on the Marine and asked in a demanding voice, Why weren't we informed earlier?

I received this information just this morning in Charleston.

The general's telegram was sent over a week ago, she said.

I drove straight here as fast as the law allows.

Why is it addressed to his wife instead of his father?

I don't want to sound like a lawyer, Captain Sparkman said, but his wife is the primary next of kin, and by law she must be notified first.

What law?

I'm sorry. I have not looked it up.

Well, Sparkman, Elizabeth said, why are you referring to a law you've never read and most likely wouldn't understand anyway?

Miss MacLaine, I understand why you are upset at this time of great emotional—

Don't patronize me, Sparkman, because the law you don't understand is the ancient law of primogeniture, an exclusive right of inheritance starting with the surviving wife and then passing to the eldest son.

The tall Marine did not blink as Elizabeth wagged her slender forefinger in his face.

Enough, young lady, the reverend said, rising from his rocker. A MacLaine will not shoot, scold, or lecture the messenger.

Elizabeth held her tongue. Father is right, she realized. This guy is only doing his job.

Samuel, I hope you'll forgive us, Reverend MacLaine said. This is a shock. Let me take your coat. Please have a seat, son, and join us in a cup of tea.

* * *

Corporal Thomas Paine MacLaine pinched himself to make sure it was true.

Yes, he thought, you're a prisoner for sure, hoss. What are you doing here? Clear on the other side of the world from West Virginia. This sure as hell changes everything.

With a mild knowing smile, the stocky Viet Cong knelt, pulled the breathing reed out of MacLaine's mouth. From a pumpkin-shaped canteen, he gave MacLaine his first drink of clean liquid in over ten days: cool green tea laced with aromatic ginseng and wild honey.

How bizarre, MacLaine thought. A gift in the midst of all this madness.

He drank the Viet Cong's canteen dry, nodded thanks, and closed his eyes again.

Holy shit, this old boy has policed me up without even drawing his pistol. This can't be happening to me. Captured without a fight. Without firing a round. Without even pulling a knife. He remembered he had neither a gun nor a knife, except his Boy Scout relic.

"Xin, hai ban lai day, his captor called out in a hoarse voice. Please, two comrades come here."

MacLaine's language instructor at Monterey had been from Hanoi so he recognized his captor's similar Tonkinese accent. Hadn't he seen this dude before? Yes, somewhere but where?

"Mau len di! the man commanded. Come quickly!"

MacLaine realized his wife's damned tarot-card readings had been right. His future in Vietnam had turned out to be a real bummer, to say the least.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight. His face and neck felt as hot as a heating pad turned on high. His shoulders and back wept from embedded Claymore mine pellets and other debris. His broken right arm again threatened to rob him of consciousness.

The sage words of his advisory team leader, Captain Warfield, drifted back through a fog of pain to haunt him: The Viet Cong will execute any American advisor they capture, since we're the most detrimental of all Americans to their cause. Why? Because we eat, live, work, and fight beside their most valuable asset—the Vietnamese people.

With that in mind, MacLaine began to pray again—this time for strength, courage, and a chance to escape.

* * *

Elizabeth watched Sparkman remove his scarf and overcoat. Three rows of colorful ribbons and a gold badge featuring a three-ringed target adorned his well-girded chest.

She didn't know what they meant.

Then she spied three embossed words on the badge: DISTINGUISHED PISTOL SHOT.

Well, at least this big blond dummy can hit a mark she guessed, but what about Tommy?

Elizabeth went into the kitchen to get the tea while over hearing to their conversation.

Captain, have you told Sandra about our Thomas? Reverend MacLaine asked.

I'm sorry, sir, but we can't find your son's wife. She moved and left no forwarding address.

Don't worry, Elizabeth mused. The hippie bitch will holler when she doesn't get her monthly $400 allotment check taken out of Tommy's pay ever since he went to Vietnam.

Do you know where your daughter-in-law is, sir? Captain Sparkman asked.

Afraid not, Reverend MacLaine answered. We've never met my daughter-in-law because Thomas didn't tell us when he got married in Tijuana, Mexico and—

Elizabeth brought in the sterling silver tea service and set it on the polished-marble coffee table before them.

Father, she said, we don't need to discuss Tommy's marriage.

I reckon you're right, darling daughter, Reverend MacLaine agreed, and looked over Sparkman's ribbons. Captain, have you been to Vietnam?

Yes sir. I returned last summer.

Elizabeth served them tea in Lenox cups, and started to fume because she felt like a damned Georgetown cocktail waitress again.

What do you do now? Reverend MacLaine asked.

I'm the Marine recruiting officer for West Virginia based in Charleston.

Did you ever see our Thomas over there in Vietnam?

No sir, but I knew his team leader, Captain Lance Warfield, who was my roommate and best friend at the Naval Academy.

Oh, yes. Thomas wrote us about his good captain, the reverend said, looking at Elizabeth, as if to say, be civil. He's a fine officer. Did anyone ask Lance where Thomas is?

No sir.

Why not? Elizabeth challenged.

Sparkman paused, looked into the fire, and then straight into Elizabeth's defiant eyes.

Captain Warfield was killed on the ninth of November, he replied. The same day Corporal MacLaine was lost. They were together.

Elizabeth took a deep breath.

Son, we're mighty sorry about your friend, Reverend MacLaine said.

The warm den again fell silent.

Bad news comes in threes, Elizabeth recalled.

Outside the Bluetick hounds began to howl in a long mournful chord.

Jojo, lying in front of the fire, sat up, stretched, and joined their plaintive chorus.

Hush, honey, Elizabeth said. Your Uncle Tommy will come back just as our Uncle Harley did. She wanted to believe what she had told her treasured pet, but her heart held an almost unbearable doubt. Come on, my baby, let me get you a treat for your fine singing.

Jojo trotted behind her into the kitchen where she gave him a small strip of venison jerky.

Elizabeth stared out the back kitchen window in a trance.

She saw nothing but light snow falling on her father's smokehouse, dormant vegetable garden, and naked rows of Concord grapevines in the family arbor.

Tommy is lost, she thought. His good captain is dead. His flower child wife is pregnant and has probably skipped off with some other guy. What more can I bear?

Then Elizabeth heard a powerful motorcycle's exhaust rumble in the distance, and knew it was her Uncle Harley coming home.

From Jojo's throat came one harsh, dry signal bark, and she gave him another strip of jerky. One more, hon, and that's it.

Elizabeth heard her father and Sparkman still talking about Vietnam over their tea.

She detested the very word: Vietnam. To her, it conjured up everything wrong in this Age of Aquarius. The war. The drugs. The draft. The establishment. And the Nixon Administration.

The old hand-cranked wall phone's twin bells rang.

Elizabeth lifted the oak and brass receiver.

Reverend MacLaine's residence, she answered, and heard a faint, unfamiliar voice.

This is Simon Proctor calling.

Yes, Mr. Proctor.

Excuse me, ma'am, but I'm trying to locate the sister of a Marine I knew in Vietnam.

Who is the Marine? Elizabeth asked, shaking so much she had to grasp the receiver with both hands.

Corporal Thomas MacLaine.

This is his sister, Elizabeth.

Oh, wow, I served with Tom over there.

Simon? Then Elizabeth remembered. You're the male nurse—the medic?

Actually, I'm a medical corpsman.

Forgive me—corpsman. Tommy wrote me about you, Simon, she said. Do you know where he is?

No. I'm calling to see if you've heard from him.

We have just been informed he's missing-in-action.

Elizabeth heard nothing but a long pause on the other end of the line.

MIA, huh, Proctor said at length, well, I was afraid something like that had happened to him, but at least Tom wasn't KIA.

KIA?

Sorry, Elizabeth, killed-in-action.

No, but Lance Warfield was.

Elizabeth heard another long pause.

Doesn't surprise me, Proctor said, because of where I saw him last.

With Tommy?

No, they were separated by then . . . but, they did start out together on the same boat.

What happened?

Pardon me please, Elizabeth, but I'd rather not talk about it on the phone, Proctor said in a near whisper. I'm not feeling well especially since I now know Tom is MIA, and our captain was KIA.

I understand. Where are you?

I'm in the orthopedic ward at the Naval Hospital in Bethesda, Maryland.

Hospital?

Elizabeth held her breath.

I was wounded in the same action.

Elizabeth exhaled and said, Simon, I'm so sorry to hear that.

Yeah, Proctor said, it's a real bummer for me.

Bingo, she said to herself. Number three. Dear God, let it be the last.

Well, at least you survived, Simon.

Yeah, I guess so, but barely....

Tears welled in Elizabeth's eyes as she fought to maintain her composure.

I'll come visit you, she said, and will leave here as soon as I can.

Be strong for father, she ordered herself. For Tommy's sake don't break down with that damn Marine in the house.

I'd sure enjoy meeting you, he said, perking up a bit.

I promise, Simon, I'll see you tomorrow sometime.

Just after Elizabeth hung up, the wall phone rang again.

She impulsively answered, Reverend MacLaine's residence.

A man's deep voice whispered, Lizzie?

No, it's Elizabeth.

Yeah, it's you, Lizzie the lesbian. We gonna gangbang you up your ass, then shoot you dead in your red head, you fucking AC-DC whore.

Elizabeth slammed down the phone on the racist Chisholm son of a bitch, not needing any more of his lowlife Ku-Klux-Klan bullshit.

She ran down into the cellar with faithful Jojo following, slumped over her mother's antique canning bench and began to sob in anguish.

Her bowels were mush.

She knew she had to fight back against those cross-burning Chisholm bastards. Prosecute every single sorry-assed one of them. Lock all their lazy butts up and throw away the key. But now she just wanted to take Jojo in her arms and crawl into one of the slaves' old secret hiding places. Shut herself and her surrogate baby away from the never-ending Vietnamese abomination on the other side of the world.

Then she heard the Blueticks barking and heavy boots stomping the back porch.

She knew Uncle Harley had returned from checking on the livestock, because a healthy heifer had been found dead that morning from no apparent cause.

Wiping her eyes, she climbed the cellar stairs.

Jojo bounded up the steps past her like a miniature jackrabbit, his tail wagging in anticipation of greeting the MacLaine clan's alpha male.

Got any hot coffee, darlin'? Uncle Harley asked, taking off his black leather motorcycle jacket.

Always, for you, my dear uncle.

Harley patted her dog's head.

Howdy, rat killer, he said, his mellow voice laced with lilting West Virginia rhythm. You wanna take a walk in the woods with me?

Then Harley looked at Elizabeth and said, Whoa! You been ah-cryin', gal.

I just couldn't help it....

What's wrong? he asked with sudden concern.

Elizabeth blurted it all out.

You just blew my hat into the creek, her uncle said in surprise, and held her tight.

She felt a scratchy coldness on her forehead from his red-stubbled chin, and detected Red Man chewing tobacco and Imperial sipping whiskey on his breath.

I hope and pray I can be as strong as you are, Uncle Harley, she whispered.

He released her from his tight embrace.

You can for sure, he said, cuz you're a MacLaine.

I am, indeed.

How did this Marine fella get here?

He drove here alone from Charleston this morning, Elizabeth said. His Marine car is out front.

She watched her uncle march into the family den, heard him introduce himself to Captain Sparkman, and saw the door close.

She took a seat at the kitchen table and began to cry again in disbelief.

Tommy, oh Tommy, she whispered between sobs, feeling a spirit-killing angst in her heart.

Jojo whined, and the Blueticks began to howl again in the frigid mountain air.

* * *

MacLaine opened his eyes and saw the sun trying to break through the muggy-monsoon overcast.

Two young, hard-faced guerrillas in black pajamas and jungle-green camouflage capes trudged up, grabbed his ankles, and dragged him and an enormous dead python across the slick mudflat through the warm shallow water of the Ca Sau River.

The tide was out, MacLaine realized, but he didn't know what time it was.

The two guerrillas pulled MacLaine up the muddy riverbank. They blindfolded him with a black-and-white checkered cotton cloth. The type worn by Vietnamese peasants as scarves and headbands. It stank with the combined odors of fish, tobacco, and kerosene.

"Thang My nang nhu con heo, one guerrilla commented about MacLaine in a clear South Vietnamese accent. He is as heavy as a swine."

"It ra cung tam muoi kilo, the other agreed. At least eighty kilos."

True, the South Vietnamese said, but his nose is not long. I thought all Americans had long noses but he has the flat nose of a Chinese emperor's dog.

Yes, a shovel nose, agreed his comrade. He also does not have cat eyes they're all supposed to have. His dead swine eyes are swollen shut.

"Oh, Thuong Si Khong Quan Luong, bat duoc thang nao do? another voice questioned. Oh, Senior Sergeant Luong, have you brought us a live prisoner and a dead python?"

Not I alone, comrade—we brought, the Northern Vietnamese answered in his hoarse voice, and we shall dine on sweet white serpent's meat tonight.

MacLaine heard bushes swish, a cigarette lighter pop open, and sensed more guerrillas were gathering around him.

Red hair, one commented. I have never seen such red hair before—on his head, his chest, his arms, everywhere.

The acrid smoke of Vietnamese tobacco penetrated MacLaine's nostrils. Suppressing a sneeze, he felt small fingers rub his left forearm and heard someone say, Observe the strange picture on our prisoner's arm. What is it?

An ugly dog wearing a helmet, comrade. Only a barbarian would desire such a primitive picture to adorn his body.

MacLaine knew what they meant: burns from the ambush had distorted his Marine Corps bulldog tattoo.

A big red American monkey with a dog's picture, another said.

MacLaine's upper body tingled from the subtle pricks of dozens of tiny gobs of squirming muck.

A rare creature to be sure.

MacLaine heard the Viet Cong laugh. Some giggled like drunks, others chirped like children. To him, they all seemed happy to have him as a prisoner, and he detected no threat in their voices—just curiosity.

Enough nonsense, Sergeant Luong said in his husky rasp. Get this boy on his feet, tie him up and hide him in the jungle. Quickly, comrades, before the enemy's observer airplane slips under the overcast and finds our tracks on the mudflat.

Chapter 2

Montani Semper Liberi

Undauntable Uncle Harley came out of the den, closed the door behind him, and took a seat at the kitchen table across from Elizabeth, who was still sobbing from the shock. He pulled a red-calico handkerchief out of his Levi's and handed it to her.

Elizabeth dabbed her eyes and wiped her nose.

Harley reached over and took her trembling hands in his powerful pair.

Elizabeth, darlin', he said, we can't deny this here bad deal and just gotta accept Tom bein' an MIA.

She stared at him in tearful disbelief.

Now, now, he said, squeezing her hands, remember I was MIA for over three years in the Philippines, and I showed up with bells on, didn't I? And back then, we didn't have no helicopters to come ah-lookin' for us out in the jungle like nowadays. Captain Sparkman says they're gonna do their darnedest to find our boy.

I don't believe Sparkman is telling us everything he knows, she said sniffling.

During my hitch in the Corps, I never caught an officer in a lie, whereas out here in civilian life everybody lies, because nobody listens anyways.

I'm not saying Sparkman is a liar but he's got to know more than what was in that damned telegram.

Telegram?

I burned it in the fireplace.

Well, I don't like telegrams neither, and that captain might be holdin' back some, until he's sure ah his facts, because he don't wanna pass on no bum scoop to us. No news is better'n bad news. I seen officers do that to keep their troops' morale up.

Right now, dear uncle, my morale is in the pits.

You can't let this get you down in the mouth, girl. He squeezed her hands tighter. You gotta keep the faith.

Do you think Tommy just got lost?

No, darlin', because I been out deer huntin' with him since he was big enough to tote a rifle. Tom has got a natural compass in his head. He always knows where he's been, where he's at, and where he's ah-goin'—even in the dark.

What do you think happened to him?

I honestly don't know but I hope he's just ah-hidin' out until the coast is clear.

What can we do here at home in the meantime?

First, find out just what in Hades happened to Tom on that swamp operation.

I'm going to visit his friend, Proctor the navy corpsman, tomorrow, Elizabeth said, trying to rally. Maybe he can tell us what happened.

Mighty fine first move, Harley said, nodding his agreement.

He released her hands, stood, and stretched his large-boned frame.

What else can we do? Elizabeth asked.

Pray, darlin', because we can't undo what's been done on the other side of the world.

Without another word, Harley put on his black leather jacket, and walked out the kitchen's back door into the snow.

Elizabeth heard his ancient Indian motorcycle rumble to life.

She walked over to the humidity-streaked window, cleared a spot with his wet handkerchief, and peered out to see her uncle gunning the four-cylinder engine.

Harley popped the clutch and fishtailed the black-lacquered bike past the hibernating garden. He accelerated across the barnyard and disappeared into the wintry whiteness between the greenhouse and the blacksmith shop. He left tire tracks that soon started filling with fresh snowflakes.

Elizabeth had been comforted to see the V-shaped torso of the stout man with snowflakes on his broad shoulders. Just looking at him caused her spirit to lift. As a child, she could always find comfort in this eccentric bachelor's muscular arms. Her authentic World War Two POW hero. This former champion stock-car racer who, with avuncular patience, taught her how to drive a stick shift. The man who grew a long ponytail way before it became acceptable for real men to wear in West Virginia. In those early crew-cut days of the 1950s, a rip-tooting young Harley beat the crap out of the few rednecks bold or stupid enough to mouth off about the length of his hair, or question the persuasion of his well-known manhood. Now, in the Age of Aquarius, he no longer faced such a nebulous cultural problem. Hairstyle had finally caught up with him at last. He could even wear some flowers in his hair, if he were so inclined. God broke the mold after He made Harley, the baddest biker ass in Tecumseh County.

Where is he going and why? Elizabeth wondered. He always seems to find solace on his beloved motorcycle. Riding in the hills of home. Good for him. Where could she also find some solace? Not in Tecumseh County for sure. She couldn't even find a good man to snuggle with once in a while. Only little Jojo.

More important, she had to find out what happened to Tommy no matter what. Even if it drove her into nail-biting nuttiness for the rest of her life.

And my little brother has to return, Elizabeth said aloud. He is a MacLaine.

She heard Jojo whine, and knew he wanted her to take him outside to play in the snow. There would be no playing now. She had to get ready to go see Simon Proctor, and find out all he knows about Tommy.

* * *

MacLaine realized why his upper body tingled. Blood-sucking leeches covered his chest and back. Disgusting little shiny grayish-black parasites.

What the fuck else? he wondered, noticing his feet were bare. What happened to my damn jungle boots? How bad is this gonna get?

The Viet Cong yanked MacLaine to his feet. With a coarse manila rope, they tightly bound his wrists together in front of his waist, and loosely tied his forearms to his sides. Then, they drew his elbows forcefully rearward and cinched them together almost touching behind his back.

MacLaine thought his broken arm would explode with the excruciating pain.

Holy shit! These little bastards sure know how to hog tie a prisoner. Bet they didn't learn how as Boy Scouts either.

Now there was no way he could get the damned leeches off. He couldn't singe them off with a burning candle or cigarette so their heads wouldn't stay stuck in his skin. No, he had to let them drink their fill first. Then and only then would the tiny blood-engorged vampires fall off with a full meal. He almost laughed, because of all the other bullshit already dropped on his head. The blood-sucking little demons were not the worst of it. Not by a long shot.

MacLaine's skin crawled as he tried to mentally escape from his situation but couldn't. He gritted his teeth when the Viet Cong ran the coarse manila rope around his burned neck in garrote fashion, right where the wasps had left their still-stinging marks. Stifling an outcry, he bit his bottom lip and held his breath until his pain eased.

Show no emotion, he ordered himself. Keep your mouth shut. Don't let them know you understand their language. The only advantage you now have.

A rifle butt slammed into his back.

MacLaine lurched forward and fell face first into the mud.

Again, he heard the chorus of cheerful Vietnamese laughter and more of their childlike comments about him and his easy capture. They did not know he had evaded them for days. And if given a chance, he would escape and evade them forever.

Once more, they yanked him to his feet.

He felt woozy—nauseated.

Someone grabbed the rope and jerked him forward like a blind dog on a short leash.

Seconds passed as the circulation in his arms was being cut off more and more, causing the inside of his right biceps to pulsate with the painful intensity of an impacted wisdom tooth.

Strong hands grabbed MacLaine's hair, jerked his head downward, and ripped off his dog tags from around his neck.

"Chiec nhan tren soi giay chuyen, MacLaine heard one say. A ring on a chain."

There goes my Tecumseh County High School graduation class ring, he thought.

Next they stripped his prized Zodiac and compass from his left wrist.

All he could do was listen to their excited chatter, because right now he was all theirs and nothing more.

Since he has two watches on one band, perhaps he is an officer? another ventured.

No, comrade. One is a frogman's watch. The other, a compass. Besides, he is too young to be an officer. Unless, of course, he is a mere second lieutenant.

Comrade, no officer would have a dog's picture on his arm.

Quick hands rifled through the baggy pockets of his jungle-camouflage utilities.

I was told all Americans were wealthy, a disgusted voice said. Our prisoner has not one piaster on him!

He is not an officer. Simply a soldier. He is not paid much, but far more than our meager forty piasters a month.

Look, comrades, an identification card.

Dammit! They've found my Geneva Convention Card, he realized. Watch out, man. If they can read English, they'll know my name, rank, date of birth, service branch and number.

A small sharp knife, still another commented.

There goes my Boy Scout knife, too. Sayonara. How long had my trusty blade been in the MacLaine family? Longer than I care to remember. . . .

Son of a blind bitch! Now every damned thing on Captain Warfield's checklist is history. Colt M-16. New PRC-25 radio. Both of my knives. Equipment harness. Signal mirror. Canteens, boots, pack, map. My every last bottom-picking possession except the clothes on my back, making me near naked as a newborn.

MacLaine clinched his teeth and could do nothing but listen to the Viet Cong continue to chatter about him.

Our prisoner smells worse than a ram in rut.

Yes. All Americans smell, because they eat foul food out of tin cans in the way of rich, decadent Frenchmen.

He is a boy but he looks as big and well-built as a water buffalo.

His arms are as big as my legs and—

The raspy-voiced Northerner cut in to scold: Halt such talk, comrades. The American is not an animal. He is simply another man under the sun and the moon. A boy, as you said—like you and I once were. We shall care for him in accordance with the Front's policies and Uncle Ho's teachings. Do you all understand?

Yes, Sergeant Luong, they chorused in agreement.

The commanding sergeant's voice continued: Now as I said, let us get busy. Cut some nipa fronds. Cover this lad before their mosquito plane comes to search.

Surely it will, a female voice said.

Yes, the leader said, and we do not now have time to attend to our young prisoner. Remember, comrades: mission before mankind.

* * *

Elizabeth, my dear, I don't want you driving across the mountains in this looming snowstorm, her father said. Wait at least until the worst is over, darling.

I have to go right now, Elizabeth said. I promised Simon Proctor I would visit him tomorrow. I will keep my MacLaine word.

Mr. Proctor will still be in the hospital next week, the reverend persisted. You'll have plenty of time to visit him and find out what happened to our Thomas.

Elizabeth shrugged and again turned on Captain Sparkman.

Why didn't you tell us Proctor was in Bethesda?

I didn't know until now.

Why not?

Different branch of the service.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

Doesn't the navy talk to the Marines?

Of course, Miss MacLaine, but both services are taking numerous casualties these days, Sparkman answered in a dogged tone. At times it's difficult to keep track of—

Let's just keep track of one: Thomas Paine MacLaine.

Sparkman turned to Reverend MacLaine.

Perhaps I can help, sir, he said. Lance Warfield's funeral is tomorrow afternoon at the Naval Academy, followed by burial in Arlington National Cemetery. I'm heading to Washington now but will go to Bethesda tomorrow morning. I want to talk to Proctor, too. Miss MacLaine is welcome to ride with me.

Thank you, Captain Sparkman, Elizabeth said, looking him up and down.

Sparkman didn't acknowledge her thanks.

Elizabeth regretted berating him. After all, she thought, he just did his duty. Broke the bad news to us. A shitty job, but somebody had to do it. Who better than a case-hardened Marine? Yeah, right. Wonder if he enjoys his work? Who can tell with his expressionless Mount Rushmore face?

I also want to go to the funeral, Elizabeth said. Tommy wrote me several letters about Lance and sent pictures of him, too. I'm sorry I never met him but I feel I know the 'good captain' as Tommy referred to him. He was Tommy's hero, you know. This is the least our family can do.

Sparkman nodded in silence.

What's his hang-up? she wondered. Is reticence his bag? Oh well—maybe it's just a Marine thing.

Reverend MacLaine placed his hand on his Bible. This means an all-night drive, he said, looking up at the grandfather clock above the fireplace.

Don't worry, sir, Sparkman said. My snow chains are already mounted, and I have salt, sand and a shovel in the trunk.

Always prepared, huh? Elizabeth asked, semi-smiling.

Yes ma'am, Sparkman answered, turning his full attention to her, his face impassive as if expecting another tirade. Lance Warfield used to say: 'Be Prepared.' He and I were both Eagle Scouts.

Figures, she thought.

So was our Thomas, the reverend said.

An Eagle Scout? Sparkman asked.

Our one and only, Elizabeth answered, her voice cracking.

Get a grip, she ordered herself. Don't lose it in front of this bearer of bad news. Pull yourself together. Don't know why—wouldn't matter so much if he were a damn butt-ugly Chisholm lout. No, this Marine is something else. A real man. Right here in front of father's fire. Bummer news and all. A man never gets a second chance to make a first impression on a woman, and this good-looking officer and gentleman sure impresses me. Whoops, I'd better watch my mouth.

Reverend MacLaine said, Remember, Elizabeth, you have an important court date coming up this week before Judge Bogart.

I know, I know,