CAPTURED BY THE RUSSIANS: A True Story

By Charles Burrall

"You do it our way.  Here, there is no God."

On September 11, 1984, I was taken hostage by the Soviet Union and held captive in Siberia.  Few have the courage to follow their dream.  Mine led from a small town in upstate New York to a dingy cell in Siberia.  Leaving my hometown with a yearning for adventure, m

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Burrall
• Release date: Mar 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9780578641928

Charles Burrall

Charles Burrall was raised in upstate New York and graduated from St. Lawrence University in 1976. He lived eight years in Alaska where he worked as a commercial fishing deckhand and ship's steward in the U.S. Merchant Marine. He currently resides in Maryland.

Book preview

Part 1

The Wide Open Spaces

Where can I go from Thy Spirit?

Or where can I flee from Thy presence?

If I ascend to heaven, Thou art there;

If I make my bed in Sheol, behold,

Thou art there.

If I take the wings of the dawn,

If I dwell in the remotest part of the sea,

Even there Thy hand will lead me,

And Thy right hand will lay hold of me.

Psalm 139: 7-10

Chapter 1

Seized!

From a distance it looked like a fishing trawler, a gray ship without flag or markings. As we approached it turned bow-on, now just a sliver, the rigging rising above, impossible to discern anything. The ocean was flat calm, so calm, you could have water-skied on the Bering Sea. Not a cloud was in the sky. The rounded silhouettes of the Diomede Islands were bumps in the distance. Nearing the gray ship, we attempted contact with the VHF radio. Nothing.

Returning from a freight hauling mission in the Arctic Ocean, we were five men on a 115-foot vessel, the Frieda-K. We had been transporting fresh water, diesel fuel, and food supplies to seismographic vessels doing research in the Chukchi Sea, off the northwest coast of Alaska. Running ahead of schedule due to good weather, our captain decided to visit the Diomede Islands. Crossing the flatness of the Bering Sea on this particular day, the crew had been out on deck taking pictures and clapping one another on the back, for this was something to remember. A look at the coast of Russia. Siberia! Nobody goes there! It was Tuesday, September 11, 1984.

Our captain slowed the Frieda-K as we neared the gray ship. When we were almost upon her, that is, when it was too late to make any other decision, a yellow and black flag shot up the mast of the gray ship and an officer appeared on deck making hand signals to come alongside. By now our momentum would have taken us abreast, and our captain gave us orders to secure. We threw our lines up and made fast.

Several moments of confusion followed. Their deck was above ours, and as we peered up at their gunwale, heads began popping up all along their rail, gazing with bewilderment at our craft below. The four of us crewmen were on deck, and now our captain, Tabb Thoms, came out, pencil and paper in hand, wanting to speak with the other captain. We were just north of the Diomede Islands in the Bering Strait, and our captain’s intention was to split the channel between the two islands en route to the tiny village on Little Diomede, but information was scant at the time in Pacific Coast Pilot, the handbook of navigation in Pacific waters, regarding the two-and-a-half-mile-wide passage between Big and Little Diomede Islands. We needed additional navigational information from what appeared to us as a gray fishing trawler.

Just then, a young official, followed by two armed soldiers, hopped aboard our ship and hurried to the wheelhouse. Ka-pee-taan! Ka-pee-taan! one of the soldiers shouted, pointing at me. I pointed over to Thoms who was standing out on deck, perched atop one of the large cylindrical fuel tanks, pencil and paper in hand, still wanting to speak with the other captain.

Another official came aboard, wanting to speak with our captain. Then, some soldiers. Then more soldiers. Then, one-by-one, onto our stern deck which was elevated close to theirs, they came pouring over the rail—boom, boom, boom, boom—until twenty or thirty armed soldiers with machine guns, knives, and full uniforms flooded the stern deck of our boat. At first we thought this was some sort of joke. It wasn’t.

With deft, swift movements, a young Soviet official disconnected our electronics and removed the wires from our radio equipment. He then ordered us to shut down the engines. We locked arms on deck, forming a huddle, and began to pray. An official roughly grabbed our captain with a menacing look, ripped him from our huddle, and shoved him into the wheelhouse. The rest of us were kept in place by soldiers armed with machine guns, none of whom spoke English. They communicated by nudging us with their guns and motioning what to do. Without radio or electronics, we were completely cut off from the United States.

We had been seized by a Russian coastal supply ship.

* * *

The officials who had come aboard then presented our captain with papers written in Russian, indicating for him to sign at the bottom. Thoms had no idea what the papers said. There was a blank at the top of the page where they wanted us to record our latitude-longitude numbers. Thoms copied the numbers from our loran—which we knew was getting a weak signal this far north—a reading of 168°45´ W, American waters. The Soviet officials then crossed out our numbers and recorded their own. Sign the papers, they indicated.

What do the papers say? Thoms asked.

One of the officials answered in Russian, which was translated through another who served as interpreter. We can not tell you what they say, he said in halting English. But you must sign.

What do the papers say? Thoms repeated. I can’t sign anything unless I understand what it says.

We are sorry, said the official who served as translator. We can not tell you.

There was a moment of silence as Thoms paused to think.

What happens if I refuse to sign? he asked.

The one serving as interpreter relayed the question to the Soviet official. His answer returned in Russian.

You will be taken to Siberia.

There was a long silence now.

Thoms did not respond. He simply walked away to the opposite side of the wheelhouse, opened the door, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted an order to the crew:

SIGN NOTHING!! NO MATTER WHAT THE COST!!

He then turned away from the door and walked slowly back to the Soviet official, looking the man squarely in the eye.

I refuse to sign these papers, he answered.

The Soviet official simply, stoically, nodded his head once.

* * *

Within two hours a Russian warship loomed on the sea, a behemoth of a vessel, the sheer size of its hull and guns dwarfing the two ships. Shortly after, a military helicopter followed, and then a small landing craft and several other boats from Big Diomede Island arrived at the scene. The five of us were literally surrounded by hundreds of armed soldiers! We had a grand total of two rifles and two pistols on board, for hunting purposes. This was ridiculous! It was something out of a movie!

Three or four smaller boats containing high-ranking Soviet military officers arrived at the Frieda-K, each accompanied by six to twelve guards. An official Soviet interpreter came aboard who called himself Harry. He was medium height with a stocky build. He had black hair and a round face. Though most of the soldiers were fair-complexioned, he seemed more a mix of Oriental and Slavic. He spoke impeccable English in a deliberate, halting tone that carried with it a foreboding air of impending doom.

There was a temporary lull now while the Russians debated what to do with us. It seemed like they were not exactly sure themselves what was next. We looked out at Little Diomede Island, American soil, so close you could practically touch it. So close. It looked so easy.

What happens if we try to escape? our first mate said to Harry. What if we just run for it?

Harry said something in Russian to one of the officers who simply laughed. He answered and Harry translated: Remember Korean 707? he said, referring to the Korean airliner that strayed into Russian airspace the year before, was intercepted and shot down by Soviet fighter planes, killing over two hundred innocent civilians. It go BOOM!! He made a grand gesture with his hands to emphasize the explosion. Five Americans. That is no problem.

* * *

After several hours it was decided that we would be taken to Siberia. We would be placed under tow by the Soviet destroyer. As the destroyer swung into position, we pulled out a brand new towline, never used, stowed up forward for use in the event of an emergency. It was sunset now, and the horizon glowed with orange and red. Soldiers watched with curiosity as we shackled the harness and towline to the destroyer. Once secure, we pulled away, the sky red behind Big Diomede, and as the soft colors of dusk settled quietly over the islands, the Frieda-K vanished from the western world.

* * *

How in the world did I get here? I had left home in upstate New York several years before for what I thought would be a short three-month tour around the United States before coming home and writing up a few stories about it. Tired of the same run-of-the-mill pattern so many of my friends were taking—college, B.A., graduate school, job—I needed to get out and see something. When my grandfather was my age, there was World War I. He flew a biplane. When my father was my age, there was World War II. He was a bombardier. What had I known? I had known nothing but school all my life. I needed a chance. I needed to find out what life was all about. I needed some adventure. What started as an innocent three-month trip turned into a twelve-year odyssey, and now, abducted on a freighter off the northwest coast of Alaska—by the Soviet Union no less—well, this was more than I’d bargained for!

But what would happen now? Would I ever see home again? Or was this what my life had come down to? Would it all come to an end in Siberia? Yes, I wanted adventure. It was a simple dream. But little did I know, when heading out seven years before, that it would come to this!

Chapter 2

Heading Out

Alot of people are living miserable lives because they don’t have the courage to follow their dream. They drive down 270 every day on their way to work hating life. Not everyone of course, but far too many. Some know it and others don’t, but they hate life and are living only for weekends for one simple reason: they are not following their dream. For one reason or another, they have sold their dream for something else. For one valid or invalid reason, they are not doing the thing that is deepest in their heart to do. They are either not following their passion, or they don’t have a passion. They are not following their dream.

Life is short. Hardly any of us realize that—the saints and poets, maybe, as Thornton Wilder said—but it is true. I have learned in my brief time here that life is too short to live in any other way. You must follow your dream. It may not be the easiest way to go; it is the ONLY way to go. So long as we have the choice, it is right there waiting for us. Otherwise, we are wasting our time by doing something other than what we were put here to do.

* * *

I graduated from college in 1976 with a degree in English and American literature and a provisional certificate to teach secondary school English. That same year, fresh out of college, I got a job teaching eighth and ninth grade English in the junior high school in my hometown. I hated it. I hated it not because I was twenty-one years old and didn’t know what I was doing. Not because the kids gave me an incredibly hard time in the classroom, though both were true. The reason I hated it was because I was twenty-one years old and had a dream that I was doing absolutely nothing about.

I kept a journal that year and in November, at the end of one of the journal entries, wrote in big bold letters:

AM I HAPPY?

Whenever you find yourself asking this question, like Ishmael in Moby Dick when he struggled to refrain from deliberately stepping into the street and methodically knocking people’s hats off, you know what the answer is. I had a car. I rented a decent apartment. I had a nice girlfriend. I wore a necktie to work. But still came that nagging question: AM I HAPPY? There must be more to life than this, I thought.

So April of the school year came. I had turned twenty-two over the winter, and during spring break of that year made an important decision: after one year I was retiring from the teaching profession. When I made the announcement to the principal and staff upon returning from break I was shocked by their response. About half the staff—one even told me in the staff bathroom of all places—said I was gutless, a loser, a quitter. One tough year and you’re going to quit. You’re a nobody! were his exact words. But the other half of the staff had the opposite reaction. "If I were twenty-two years old and had it to do all over again, I’d do the same thing. I wish I had it all to do over. But that chance will never come again. Go for it! These were the people who encouraged me most. But that line—that one haunting line—continued to play over and over in my mind: I wish I had it all to do over." I didn’t want that to be me in twenty years.

There’s a funny thing about following your dream. You never quite know who will back you and who won’t. For example, my mother was all for it. She encouraged and supported me one hundred percent. On the other hand, my father thought I was crazy. He was dead set against it. And being one of those first born types, it meant a lot to me to have my father’s approval. But in the end, none of it mattered. It didn’t matter who encouraged and who didn’t, who supported and who didn’t. That’s the thing about following your dream. The only thing that mattered was to find the thing that was deepest in my heart to do and do it! I’m not saying not to listen to people we are close to. We need wise counsel from parents, teachers, relatives, friends, the people we love. That wise counsel must then be sifted. But when it comes to following your dream, that is a question only you can answer.

You see, and I mean this, I sincerely believe that everyone in this world—everyone—has a gift, has something he or she can do better than most other people. The key is to find out what that gift is, and then go do it. You might not be the best, but you will be good, and better than most. That is probably the thing you should be doing with your life, and the thing that I wanted to do more than anything else in the world at the tender age of twenty-two was to travel and write. I wanted, more than anything else, to find out who I was and write about it.

In high school and early college my best subjects were science and math. Naturally, I thought I was going to be an engineer of some sort. But in college that all changed. I had an American literature teacher who made English come alive to me for the first time. I loved the adventure stories of Herman Melville, Mark Twain, Jack London, Ernest Hemingway. I dreamed of being a traveler and adventure writer like them. When we studied Moby Dick I remember thinking, I have to do this some day. I have to go to sea. Then I remembered an innocent comment made in his office by my freshman comp. professor, Dr. William Barr. He said to me, You shouldn’t even be in this class. You write beautifully. Granted, it was only freshman comp., but that was all it took. I switched my major from engineering to English.

* * *

So I finished out the school year. I turned in the grades, the end-of-the-year forms, completed the book inventories, cleaned out my classroom. I packed up a few old clothes in a duffle bag, stuck in some notebooks and carbon paper to write on, turned my apartment over to my sister, parked the car in my grandmother’s garage, stuffed four hundred dollars cash into my left front pocket, and headed out on foot. It was early July 1977.

Chapter 3

The Wide Open Spaces

My plan was to hitchhike out west, travel around about three months being careful with my money, then return east and write up a few stories. But things didn’t turn out according to plan. The money ran out quickly, and by mid-August I was broke. By then I was hitchhiking through Montana, not far from Yellowstone Park. The two guys I was riding with had just finished high school, and were taking a little tour of the country before starting college in the fall. We passed a Best Western Lodge with a sign up in the front window that read:

Whoa! I said. Stop right here. I gotta check this out. They pulled the car over. Wait one minute. I’ll be right back.

It turned out the lodge was losing their cook that very day. He was going back to college in Ohio and they needed a replacement for him. A kind, quiet-spoken, elderly man with silvery hair was working the front desk.

Do you have any experience cooking? the man asked.

Yes. I was a student cook in college. Then I worked at a hotel part time to pay for room and board.

Good. You’re hired. Fill out this form and you’ll start tonight.

What about my stuff?

You can put it here in the lobby. The owner will be down shortly and he will show you to your room.

I went back out to the guys I was riding with. Nice knowin’ ya, guys. This is where I get off. I have a job!

And so I had come to Cooke City, Montana.

* * *

I worked at the Watuck Lodge in Cooke City, Montana for four months. I stayed in the annex, a separate living quarters where the employees roomed. During that time and since leaving home I kept journals describing the people, the places, the thoughts and feelings I was having on the trip. I knew that if I were going to write anything worth anything, I would have to develop the necessary skill to make it good. Our best athletes, our best musicians, our best hairdressers for cryin’ out loud have a talent and a skill, but that talent and skill isn’t enough by itself. It has to be developed. It has to be worked on. It has to be made good. You have to find the thing you are good at, the thing you are passionate about, and work on it. Make it good. Only then will you achieve