no insignia on his uniform, nothing to give away his rank ? a standard precaution when flying combat patrols ? but I could tell from the way the rest of the men on the boat reacted to him that he might be somebody special. Maybe real special. I should have drowned him when I had the chance.
But for what it was worth, it got Gator fairly decent treatment. The fact that I'd fished him out of the water to begin with seemed to count for something.
It took us two hours to get to shore, a rolling, gut-puking journey in what looked like a converted fishing vessel. It must have had no draft whatsoever ? we bobbed around even in the mild seas like a cork with a trout on the other end.
Finally, we pulled into a naval base and pulled up to the pier. Once again, my buddy departed the boat first. That clued me in too ? last on, first off is the rule for senior officers. He stood on the pier, a bedraggled, soaked, and exhausted figure, with something burning inside of him that kept him upright and snapping out orders. A stretcher was waiting for Gator, and two men who looked to be the Vietnamese equivalent of medics were at his side immediately. Not a routine evolution from the looks of it ? I expected our friend's extended conversation on the ship-to-shore radio had something to do with it.
Nobody paid much attention to me, other than a tough-looking guy patting me down real thoroughly. He took away my knife and my radio. He left me with a chocolate bar and my plastic bottle of water.
Finally, old Fred ? and that's how I was beginning to think of him, because I was tired of thinking of him as a gook or simply that guy ? motioned to both of us. We marched off to an ambulance and a panel truck. They tried to pull me away from Gator's side and stuff me in the truck, and I protested vigorously.
'You are American?' The words in English surprised me, and I spun around to see a small, delicately made Vietnamese woman looking up at me. She smiled. 'I am the translator,' she said carefully, her words precise and accented. 'You are American?'
I nodded. 'Lieutenant Commander Curt Robinson, 78322-9872. United States Navy.'
She nodded, as though she'd expected nothing more. 'And your friend?'
'Commander Gator Cummings, United States Navy. I don't know his Social Security number.'
Again she nodded, an odd, cryptic expression on her face. 'I have some questions to ask you.'
'I don't answer questions.'
'They are very easy.'
I shook my head in the negative. 'No questions. And I go with him.' I pointed to Gator, who was being loaded into the ambulance.
It was her turn to shake her head, and a frown appeared on her face. 'You had General Hue in your boat,' she began, and pointed at Fred. He was standing off to the side and watching this all with a cynical expression on his face.
'A general?'
'Yes. He has ordered for us to take care of you in light of that fact. And your friend. But your friend must go to the hospital, and you will go to…' She struggled with the phrase for a moment, then came up with it. 'A holding facility.'
She blew it when she glanced over at the general to see if she'd gotten it right. I knew at that point that good old Fred spoke a good deal more English than he'd let on. I turned to him and spoke directly to him.
'You know what happened. So you just explain it to her. And I gotta go with my buddy.' The rear doors to the ambulance were now closed, and Gator was out of sight. I was growing increasingly desperate. 'C'mon, you'd feel the same way if it were your backseater, wouldn't you?'
General Hue regarded me for a long moment, as though trying to decide whether or not to admit that he spoke English. Finally, without a word, he nodded. He rattled off a short series of commands in Vietnamese, then turned back to me.
'Thank you.' The words were harsh and guttural, and barely understandable. It was evidently one of the few phrases he was willing to admit that he knew in English.
I stared back and gaped. None of this was making sense, none of it. I was certain that the general understood a good deal more than he was letting on.
But then again, you're not really in a position to challenge a general's word when you're a prisoner of war. I settled for being handcuffed and placed in the back of the ambulance with Gator.
With a rough squeal of tires, the ambulance took off from the edge of the pier. They lit up the siren, but only for a few minutes, evidently to clear traffic out ahead. I looked back at the pier through the rear window of the ambulance, and saw the general standing there talking to our interpreter.
The hospital looked like any hospital ? smelled funny, lots of white walls, a lot of people doing things that seem either painful, embarrassing, or downright pointless. Nevertheless, they seemed to treat Gator pretty well. I refused to leave the room, so they just ignored me as they wheeled in a portable X-ray machine, took some shots of his arm, then motioned to me to follow as they wheeled him down the hall.
An hour later, Gator had a real fine smile on his face, the result of whatever painkiller they'd pumped into him shortly after we arrived. He also had a nice white cast on his arm, and a neatly tied scarf in place for his sling.
'How you feeling?' I asked quietly. 'Listen, you know where we are?'
Gator smiled dreamily. 'Hong Kong?'
'No.' It was as bad as I thought it might be. Gator was disoriented, and there was no telling what he might say until the drugs wore off. 'Gator, listen to me. You punched us out, we were in the drink. The Vietnamese picked us up. Listen, good buddy, they're taking real good care of us so far. But I don't know how long that will last. You need to keep your mouth shut, don't say anything. Not about the ship, not about the aircraft, not about anything. You got that?'
'You're always telling me to shut up,' Gator said vaguely. He looked up at me, and his pupils were dilated until they ate up the whole iris. 'You never listen to me.'
'I will from now on, Gator.' I laid my hand on his good one, and held it tight. 'You were right this last time, buddy. You were absolutely right and you saved my ass. But you gotta listen to me, Gator ? pay attention now. Don't say anything. We're POWs, you understand?'
Gator nodded. 'Don't say anything.' His voice trailed off into a sleepy mumble. I sat right next to him in the room as activity teemed in the passageway. Through the open door, I could see more pilots being brought in, all of them Vietnamese. The sounds of a working hospital were almost overwhelming.
For a while, I thought they'd forgotten about us. But no such luck. Finally a big heavy guy, a security fellow of some sort, showed up. 'Come.' The word was clear and understandable.
I stood up, then motioned to Gator. 'He can't walk just yet.'
That damn panel truck was back, parked right by the ambulance entrance. It must have followed us back from the pier. I couldn't be certain it was the same one, but it looked like it. It had that faded, oxidized green you get on Army vehicles, streaked with rust on the sides. It looked pretty rickety, but the engine sounded decent.
The guard motioned us to the back of the truck, and I helped Gator in first. Damn, it was so hard not to jar him ? thank God the drugs hadn't worn off yet. He moved like a little schoolkid, sort of clumsy and awkward, with a trusting expression on his face.
I handed him up into the truck, and whispered to him, 'Don't forget. Don't say anything.' He nodded once dreamily, scooted back into one corner, and seemed to doze off. I turned back to our guard. 'Where are we going?'
He motioned at the truck again with his rifle.
I took the hint. As soon as I sat down, he slammed the door shut and I heard the lock turn. He walked around, got into the passenger seat, and talked to the driver for a minute. We pulled away, out of the parking lot, and onto a paved road.
Thirty minutes later, we were deep in the countryside. The road had degenerated to a rutted track, mostly paved but often not. Gator was awake now ? the first teeth-rattling jolt over an enormous pothole had brought him awake with an anguished moan. Now he just sat there, staring out into the air, holding his arm close to him and trying to keep it from jarring. It looked like the drugs were wearing off ? his face was getting tight, and his pupils were contracting.
'How're you doing, Gator?' I raised my voice to be heard over the rattling of our vehicle.
He groaned and turned white as we jolted hard to the right. I knew, whatever he said, he wasn't doing well at all. Not at all.
