P.O.W. - (A Letter Home)
July ’71
It’s my second year in this god-forsaken place.
Every day it’s almost always the same thing. Wake up just before daylight, feed us slop for food, and a cup of filthy water. Then I, along with the rest of the men, are herded out to the fields somewhere south of the Mekong River, and farm out the rice paddies.
Even in the rain, and it rains here often, but when the sun comes out of hiding, it can almost burn the skin right off you.
When we aren’t in the fields, we’re locked up in the compound. It’s terrible here. Rat-infested, poisonous snakes when you least expect it and many have gotten dysentery, high fevers and a few have died from the complications. I don’t know any other way to explain it without getting ill.
Then there was yesterday.
At least I think it was yesterday; yes, yes it was yesterday. They took Second-Lieutenant Craig from his prison hole, and marched him between six soldiers who became his firing squad. Craig and I were captured at the same time by the VC; and now they ended his life.
I was part of a patrol headed up by Craig to see what and how many forces were mounting near the Ca Mau Peninsula. He were caught up in a heavy crossfire, leaving six of us dead, one wounded, Craig, and myself, and three others not injured.
We were brought to this prison camp somewhere north of Soc Traung. I’ve heard they call this place the land of the dead.
Clint, the one that was wounded, never made the intense march. One of the VC soldiers pulled out his sidearm and shot him in the back of the head and just left him there where he fell. No warning to get up, no fanfare. One shot and Clint was gone.
Now, I’m the last one left.
How long before they kill me, I have no idea. Others here are from different military units. Some Army, some that are British and Aussies and another that’s a medic. We even an Air Force fighter-pilot.
They won’t let any of us speak English. It’s just another of their many ways to brainwash us into believing America doesn’t care about us; about me.
When Craig bought it, he walked tall and proud. From where I sat, a small bamboo cell door that lifts like a trap door, and my cell a hole in the ground about half my height; I could barely see him, but what I did see, mattered. He knew he was about to die and in the face of certain death, he still refused to let them break his spirit.
I heard the harsh guttural command, and a long trembling second passed before I jumped from the retorts of rifles echoing throughout the green hills that partially surrounded this prison. I didn’t have to be told Craig was dead.
I tried to be strong. I cried anyway.
August ’71
Word has gotten around that the VC will be moving the camp further up the riverbank. How far, no idea. I don’t know why, either.
I miss you, Joan. You and Bessie both. A day hasn’t gone by since my capture that I don’t draw a mental image of the two of you in my head. Tell Bessie for me that daddy will be home as soon as he can be. Let mom and dad know I’m still holing up pretty good. I love you, woman, with all that I am. As long as I know there is a chance I can get away from here, I’m not giving up. I’ll be fine. I’m just waiting to pick the right time and right spot to make a break for it. Tell mom and dad that when I get home, we’ll all go up to Richmond for a visit.
I pray this letter gets to you somehow.
I don’t think it will. Wilmington’s a long way from here, but I have to try. I have to hope.
Hope is all that’s left.
March ’72
This is the fourth move.
Over the last eight months, I’ve been moved from camp to camp along with the other prisoners, which are far fewer than before. I’m not sure, but we aren’t too far from the province, Aun Loc. After a while, all these camps start looking the same.
We have the same kind of cells, the same slop for food, and the same punishments when caught doing something we shouldn’t. It doesn’t matter to them even when we don’t do anything wrong; we get punished just the same.
During our last move, one of the prison commanders tried to get me to renounce my country. I spit in his face! I thought I was dead right there and then. Instead, he slapped me, yelling out orders to two soldiers to hold my left hand outstretched on a wooden table.
Raising his sword over his head, I closed my eyes, turned away and steeled myself for what was about to happen. No matter how much you prepare for something like this, it just isn’t enough.
He brought the sword down in a blinding swiftness, and I screamed when my hand separated from my wrist. I could feel, as if in slow-motion, the blade slicing through skin, tendons, and bone!
Through my tears, my agony, I opened my eyes, feeling, seeing the blood pulsing, shooting out of me. I watched as my hand wriggled on the table like a blind drunk feeling no pain and nowhere to go. I had one other thought. They didn’t cut off my writing hand! Isn’t that the damndest thing to be thinking about?
The soldiers laughed, pointing at my hand wiggling nowhere.
I was getting weaker with the loss of blood when they pulled me off my knees, dragged me to a burning stove with hot coals. They lunged my bleeding stump into the coals to cauterize the blood flowing. I screamed out again, but it did stop me from bleeding to death, but I did pass out.
But not before, with more laughter, I saw them throw my useless hand on the burning coals.
June ’72
They have me working in the rice fields again. It’s been raining all day and the sun has been in and out of the clouds. Such a strange day.
I pretty much know all their habits, and I have adapted to their language as well. They don’t know this, and trust me Joan, mum’s the word.
I learned not to speak English around them, at least not out loud. They said if I did, they would cut my tongue and watch me choke on my own blood.
I believe them. I really believe they would like nothing better than to stand around and laugh as I bled to death.
I’ve done everything asked of me, everything they tell me, but Lord in heaven; these people have no souls.
Joan, in my head, I still hold on what’s important to me. I keep remembering growing up in Richmond, and going to Virginia Beach or the beaches in North Carolina with my parents during the summer months which are hot as their spring months are here,
I’m trying hard to hold onto what the neighborhood looks like around mom and dad’s place when I’m in the fields. It is green, isn’t it?
Just like this place.
Except at home, a man can go where he wants, when he wants. Here, it’s to the field’s then back to my hole in the ground. They feed me just enough that I won’t from starvation.
That’s one thing I sure miss; your cooking, Joan. Well, I miss more than your cooking. I miss everything about you. When I get back to Wilmington, I’ll give the house a fresh coat of paint. I told you I would when I get back. You know me, I never break a promise.
I’ve probably lost forty, maybe fifty pounds, which isn’t bad. You’ve been after me to lose weight anyway. Kind of poor humor now, huh?
I’m trying hard to remember what it was like making love with you, Joan. Sometimes the image would be sharp as if we were making love this very second. Other times, things become foggy. I can’t even remember how a woman is supposed to smell.
I haven’t seen a city for the longest time. Maybe two or three years. I heard some of the soldiers about how they destroyed America. I know they are lying. They are lying, aren’t they?
As you see, I’m still using the old note-in-a-bottle-cast-out-to-sea trick, hoping this one and the other letters finds someone to get these to you, so you know I’m still alive, fighting the good fight.
It is getting harder to get these letters to you. I can’t always get my good hand on a bottle. I have to be careful not to get caught.
I want you to know I haven’t given up.
I hope you haven’t either.
As long as I’m alive, I’ll look for a chance; some way to get away from this hell I’m prisoner to.
One day I’ll come home to you and Bessie, Joan. I love you both.
Please, if someone finds this scribbled letter; take it to 1344 Denver Road. That’s my wife’s address. I need help.
There’s been talk of moving the camp again.
Off the Southern Coast of California, a small,
deep brown bottle was washed ashore by the incoming tide
and was never noticed. That was the first bottle in 1974.
Summer of ’80?
Thought I’d try again.
Can’t tell how straight the words are on this paper I scratched off an old wine bottle. I was caught trying to escape a few days (weeks?) ago. And they burned out one of my eyes and mangled the other one pretty good. I can barely see where I’m going and have to squint my eyes to focus some. The soldiers laugh at me when I stumble and fall down.
There’s been talking of killing me. I’m a liability to them now.
There hasn’t been any changes other than I’ve lost another thirty pounds, maybe more. I don’t know. There are a few more scars etched on my face and back from the daily whippings for being too slow when working, sleeping too long, or just because the soldiers have nothing better to do than kick me around for sport.
Outside my prison, I can hear them talking about me as I write this. They said I’m to be shot in the morning before they move camp again. I’m about twenty or thirty feet form a river inlet. I hope this green bottle finds a current and gets to you, Joan!
I’ve prayed and held out hope for help to come as long as I could. I never stopped believing help would come. I’d like to believe this will never happen to an American again. To any soldier, period.
When they come for me in the morning, I’m going to make a break for the river, throw the bottle in and hope; just as I’ve hoped with all the rest of my letters that this ends up in your hands.
I know I’m dreaming. I know none of the letters made it, and this won’t either, but, but … it’s all I have left.
Not really.
I still love you Joan, and I love Bessie, very much. She would be thirteen or fourteen by now, at least I think she would be. I love my parents.
I hope I made you all proud.
Please! Don’t let this happen to our children who grow up. It isn’t worth the sacrifice.
If there are others held hostage like me, don’t give up on them. Don’t stop searching for them. Like me, they need hope.
They need to know they have a chance of coming home.
Farewell and God Speed,
Sgt. Terry Johnson, USMC
The second bottle sent never made it past a clump of branches along a muddy embankment. Four other bottles never survived the ocean waves.
Only two bottles every made it to the coastline.
The rest were lost forever.
Near the Puget Sound coastline on a hot and sunny August afternoon in 1998, thousands of people were walking across the white-hot sand, while others laid on their blankets, soaking up the rays of the sun to keep their tans eternal. Some were playing volleyball, others treading in water, but no one noticed a green bottle, covered with mossy seaweed that had washed ashore, holding a scribbled message inside except for a small boy. Picking it up, holding it with both hands, he stared in wonderment.
“Jimmy,” his mother called out to him, “throw that bottle away and get back here. It’s time to go.”
“Aw, mom. Hey, I think there’s something in this bottle.”
“I don’t care. Throw it away and let’s go!”
Jimmy grumbled staring at the green bottle.
“Do we have to?”
“Yes, we have to. Quit giving me a tough time, and for the last time, throw that bottle away. Let’s go!”
Jimmy looked at the bottle one final time and let it slip through his fingers and heard the dull thumping sound it made when it hit the soft sand. Running to where his mom stood, blanket under one arm, a beach bag slung over her left shoulder, Jimmy exclaimed, “You should have seen it, mom!”
“Seen what?”
“That bottle! I think it had a piece of paper in it, you know, like maybe a treasure map like pirates had.”
“Whatever you say, Jimmy. Just help me carry this stuff. I want to get back to the house before your father gets home from work. You know how upset he can get when dinner isn’t ready when he comes home.”
By the time Jimmy and his mother were in the car and pulling out of the parking lot, Jimmy had already forgotten about the green bottle and its contents.
His mother could have cared less.
In the same mid-afternoon sun blazing down on many of the bodies who ran or walked by the green bottle, as the beach was a place to have fun in the sun.
People with their pets, kids playing Frisbee, a group of sweating teens playing volleyball, the old couple who walked along the shoreline never noticed.
No one else stopped to pick it up.
No one noticed.
No one cared.
The green bottle lay there, surrounded by forgotten footprints in the sand.
Early the next morning, before another large crowd returned to set up
their own spot on the beach, the green bottle would be picked up
and placed in the trash by city employee’s hired to keep the beach free of debris.
And later that morning, the city dump-truck
would haul it away to the county dumpsite.
Just like the first one in 1974.
Forgotten.