The Ghosts of Hanoi

The Ghosts of Hanoi

by

Alex Drinkwater, Jr.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Alex Drinkwater, Jr.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Contents:

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

The howl of a U.S. Army two-and-a-half-ton truck in second gear breached the quiet of the woods. The bumpy, unpaved road was giving the driver, who happened to be a Marine, a tough time. Man, these Army trucks are worse than ours!

The GI next to him leaned forward. Hey, Short-Ron, what the hell is that?

The Marine peered through the windshield as he downshifted, seeing nothing. "What, what the hell is what?"

That! See it? It looks like a log across the road -- holy shit! Stop the fuckin' truck, now!

What the -- aw, Jesus! Ronald Short Ron Paquette, Corporal, USMC slammed both feet on the brake pedal but it was already too late. Six men in black pajamas sprang out of the bushes, firing their AK-47s. Short Ron and his Army buddy, Specialist Dave Sanderson died as the windshield shattered. Two Viet Cong -- VC -- dodged the out-of-control truck as it veered off the narrow road, hitting a tree and landing in a ditch. It sat there, engine still running, with its right-side wheels two feet off the ground.

In the canvas-covered back of the truck, Sergeant Harry Hartoonian pushed the guy next to him. Sammy, you okay? Private Sam Jewitt keeled over, the back of his head missing. Hartoonian pushed him off, Jewitt's blood spilling on his pants, his face covered with tears as he realized what was happening.

Corporal Greg Bradley, who had been sitting across from Hartoonian, tried to get out with Specialist Ed Valentine behind him. VC! Fuckin' VC!

A bullet struck Bradley in the forehead as he peered through the opening in the rear, causing his head to first snap back and then slump forward, lifeless. The other two froze in place. A minute later, a Vietnamese with an AK-47 stuck his head in and pulled Bradley's body out of the truck. You, GI, get out! Out! He stepped back to allow them to exit, keeping the AK-47 aimed at them. Out! Now!

Valentine and Hartoonian gingerly climbed out of the vehicle to find several armed men pointing their weapons at them. They stood there, arms raised, realizing the war was over for them. Valentine looked at Bradley's body. Aw, man.

He received a rifle butt in his face, knocking him down.

Quiet! You quiet!

Hartoonian just stood there, shaking, and wondering if he would ever see home again. Hell, he wondered if he would live through the day.

Within ten minutes, the Viet Cong had stripped the bodies of valuables, searched the truck, and made off with their two captives, bound and gagged. The other four bodies lay in the overturned truck where they had died. The woods were quiet again.

* * * * * * *

Buzz Basilio jumped up from his cot, awakened by something that had run across his chest. He looked around the plywood hooch that served as his living quarters. It was empty except for him, and whatever had shared his bed.

There it was, staring at him from the corner -- a rat almost as big as his size 10 combat boot. Bastard! Buzz hurled a book at the offensive creature, which scurried across the floor, disappearing into a hole in the plywood wall, just under one of the flimsy screens.

Buzz checked his watch, which sat on a makeshift table next to his bunk. Almost 12 noon. Buzz had worked the graveyard shift most of his time in Vietnam, but he still had trouble sleeping during the day. Now he was wide-awake after only four hours sleep because of the rat.

He sat up, still groggy. How many days did he have left in this hole? He couldn't remember if it was 40 or 41. He pulled out a piece of paper from a shelf inside the orange crate, which doubled as a table. On the top and bottom were the words SCREW IT! in large, red letters. A series of dates beginning with 31 October 1969 was arranged into a matrix forming a rough calendar. An X was scrawled through every date up to l9 September 1970. He reached for a red pencil and did the same to 20 September. Ten days left this month, 31 in the next.

Forty-one days. Damn.

He tried to go back to sleep but the stifling heat made it impossible. He tossed about on the uncomfortable cot, occasionally flipping away an ant with his finger. Again he sat up and lit a cigarette, contemplating his surroundings. He occupied half of the hooch, the other half belonged to another lieutenant named Johnny Allen, a personable guy from Natick, Massachusetts. Allen worked during the day, which worked out well for both, but they really did not get to know each other. Probably best not to make friends in this place anyway. Buzz's side consisted of his cot, some furniture fabricated from crates and various boards and bricks, and a footlocker. A red, gold, and blue Viet Cong flag hung over his bed, but this one wasn't quite regulation as it had HO CHI MINH SUCKS emblazoned on it. Even the barracks at Fort Benning seemed palatial compared to this.

He put out the cigarette in the empty 105-mm shell he used for an ashtray and tried once more to sleep. He lay there, thinking about home as usual, and how much he wished he were there.

Home for First Lieutenant Anthony Rudolf Buzz Basilio was the Federal Hill area of Providence, Rhode Island. He came from a middle class family of second generation Italians and, being an only child, unusual enough in Italian families, he had coasted through life with a fair amount of ease. The family business was costume jewelry, run out of a small shop called Basil Creations. Buzz's father, Eddie Basilio, a short, balding man who had lost a finger in the Big War, was the boss, and his brothers, Alex and Joe, were his business partners. The three men had realized long ago that Buzz possessed no interest in manufacturing costume jewelry, so Buzz had merely worked in the shop during the summers between college terms while his cousins were groomed for positions in the small but successful company. He had no real idea of what he wanted to do in life and, after two years of majoring in Liberal Arts at Providence College, he dropped out and joined the Army. His father had encouraged him, saying it would make a man out of him. Mama Basilio, of course, had been horrified because she'd known Vietnam was a distinct possibility.

I thought you were gonna be a businessman or a politician, she'd said the day he declared his intentions, but now you might wind up dead in that Vietnam place!

Don't worry, Ma, he'd assured her. I'm going to Officer Candidate School. Heck, I'll probably end up behind a desk in the States.

Buzz went to OCS as predicted and, indeed, wound up behind a desk -- in Saigon. He was assigned to a military intelligence unit counting enemy formations. The war rarely affected life at Buzz's office at Ton Sun Nhut airbase. One could follow its progress by reading the daily situation reports and intelligence summaries, or by listening to the news on Armed Forces Radio. It always seemed as though we were winning.

Six months in country, Buzz's situation had changed somewhat when he was sent to another unit in the northern part of South Vietnam. It was called I Corps by the military. Buzz ended up in Chu Lai, a former Marine base not far from Da Nang. The conditions were more primitive, but he was still relatively safe,

And the local whores were cheaper than the ones in Saigon. Now he was the officer in charge of the Division Intelligence, or G-2, shop during the night shift. Usually little happened to break up the monotony as he listened to oldies on Armed Forces Radio every night, reading through reports and watching over the two enlisted intelligence specialists assigned to him. He was sure his mother would be happy to know that he was bored.

Still, the war was having a detrimental effect on Buzz. It affected everyone who was sent to the Never-Never-Land that was Nam. Buzz had lost a few friends, although nobody close. Some were listed as missing, having disappeared during the confusion of combat in the steaming jungle around the villages near Chu Lai. Buzz always wondered about their fates. Were some still alive, held prisoner by the Cong or their North Vietnamese benefactors? Or were they swallowed up by the triple canopy, green Hell, lying somewhere in a God-forsaken creek for all time?

He tossed and turned on the cot some more, his mind wandering. The first days in Nam came back to him. Most of them had been spent in a state of confusion in a place known as Long Binh Junction -- Camp LBJ. He'd spent the first night lying on a cot such as the one he had now, watching flares drift down on their tiny parachutes and wondering what the year ahead would bring. Even after receiving an assignment at the airbase the war had remained distant, mostly muffled explosions miles away.

Basilio got up again. Maybe a trip to the latrine and a drink of water would help. He arose and donned an exotically patterned robe with dragons, and a beat-up pair of slippers. He'd purchased the robe in the nearby village for a few piastres and a couple of packs of Marlboro cigarettes. The Oriental garb seemed incongruous draped over the tall American with the Mediterranean looks. Buzz stood only about five feet, ten inches but this gave him several inches over the average Vietnamese.

The bright sun dazzled his eyes by as he stepped out of the hooch. In front of him stood two bunkers made of wood, covered with sandbags. They were to be used in case of a mortar or rocket attack, which, thankfully, were infrequent at this base. Buzz walked around the bunkers toward the plywood edifice that passed for a toilet. The smell of burning dung hit him in the face as he turned the corner around the small building. Two GIs worked on the outhouse detail, which involved pulling out the metal barrel halves that collected the deposits made by the troops. After yanking out the stinkpots from under the building, they poured gasoline on the dung and ignited it. This was one of the jobs that made Buzz glad he'd gone through the six months of harassment and nonsense at Benning that made him an officer. He passed a group of Vietnamese resting under some palm trees, taking a break from filling sandbags. The Vietnamese sergeant in charge of the detail called to him. Hey, GI! What is matter, no can sleep?

No, Tri, I'm afraid not. A fuckin' rat woke me up.

Oh, numba ten! A grin. No sweat, GI, you short anyway, right?

Forty-one days, Tri.

He entered the latrine, musing over his relationships with some of the locals. Sergeant Tri Van Khai of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, or ARVN, had more or less befriended Buzz when the American came to Chu Lai from Saigon five months earlier. Tri usually honchoed these groups of ARVN soldiers and local civilians who worked around the sprawling base. A small man, like most Vietnamese, he had a face that looked as if it had seen a lot of the war. A small scar an inch or so below Tri's left eye gave the impression that he always cut himself in the same spot when he shaved. He seemed like a decent sort to Buzz, although he was a stern taskmaster when it came to his charges.

When Buzz came out of the outhouse, Tri was waiting nearby.

Hey, GI, you got smoke?

Buzz fumbled for a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his robe and gave one to the Vietnamese.

Thank you, GI. I hope rats leave you alone now.

If they don't, I'm gonna get my goddamned M-16 and shoot the bastards.

Tri smiled, showing several missing teeth. The ones he still had were black from chewing beetlenut.

Rats like VC -- all over place. Hope we kill all VC -- all rats -- Okay, GI? The toothy grin again.

Right, Tri. I'll see you later. I'm going to try to sleep some more.

Good luck, GI. Tri turned to the other Vietnamese who were still sitting under the tree, some smoking pot -- known in the vernacular as Numba One Cigarette. Buzz was dismissed. "Duoc roi! Mau len!" The workers slowly rose and put out their cigarettes as Tri continued to bark at them.

Buzz had started through the doorway when he heard someone yell Hey, Lieutenant!

He turned around to see Staff Sergeant Dan Buchanan who worked in the Orderly Room. What's up, Danny?

The red-haired Buchanan flipped him a quick salute.

I know you're supposed to be sleeping, El Tee, but you might want to come and take and see this.

It can't wait until later?

Buchanan’s face was pale. They brought in a truck full of holes and, uh, a few bodies. I think one of them worked for you.

Buzz closed his eyes for a moment. Shit. Okay, let me get dressed.

Ten minutes later he and Buchanan stood on the street next to the G-2 shop staring at the deuce-and-a-half, which was riddled with bullet-holes. Four bodies lay next to it, covered with body bags.

Which one, Danny?

The sergeant pointed to the one in the middle. It was obvious he did not want to approach the bodies.

Buzz regarded him for a second, walked over to the body and kneeled next to it, pulling down the zipper. What he saw almost caused him to vomit. It was Specialist Greg Bradley, one of his two analysts on the night shift. A bullet had shattered his face but he was recognizable nonetheless.

Looks like they got him at close range, Buchanan said. Two of the other guys must have been in the front seat. Their faces are full of broken glass.

Buzz grimaced and zipped up the bag. Jesus. It was Greg's day off today. Some day off. He stood up. "Who are the others?

Dave Sanderson from the MP Company, Sam Jewitt from the day shift, and a Marine named Ron something. I guess he was a buddy of theirs.

Buzz knew Jewitt. He was a real screw-up, a whore-chaser who kept catching the clap. He had been busted once for being drunk on duty and they had almost pulled his clearance for that one. Well, screw-up or not, nobody deserved to die like this. Damn, four guys.

Six, actually. Harry Hartoonian and Eddie Valentine were with them too, but they're still missing.

Buzz's eyes opened wide. Oh man, I know Eddie. He worked for me back in Saigon.

A third voice came from behind him. Sucks, doesn't it? The two turned around to see Colonel Sam Fowler, the Division G-2. Fowler took the cigar from his mouth and returned their salutes. Did you get a peek at Greg, Buzz?

Yes, sir. It wasn't pretty. Do we know what happened?

Only that these guys took the truck for a joyride into town on their day off. Christ knows what they ran into. He returned the cigar to his mouth. I've told these guys a thousand goddamned times, watch your ass out there. This isn't like being back on the street. He shook his head. Buzz, after you get off work tomorrow morning you may want to stay up for a while. They'll probably have some kind of service for them.

Yes, sir. I'll be there.

The colonel regarded the bodies once more and walked away. Shit, he said, to no one in particular.

Buzz turned to Buchanan. Danny, if there's nothing else I can do, I'm gonna try and get a few more hours sleep. It's probably gonna be a long night.

Yeah, go ahead, El Tee. We'll take care of this.

Buzz noticed someone standing to his right. It was Tri.

Numba ten, the Vietnamese said as he took in the scene. Numba fuckin-ten.

Back in the hooch, Buzz slipped back into the bunk and tried again for some needed sleep. He knew it would be even more difficult now. Eddie Valentine, for Chrissake. He remembered the buck sergeant from Virginia as being a quiet guy who had kept track of enemy-initiated incidents back at Ton Son Nhut. They hadn't been friends -- officers and enlisted men weren't supposed to do that. But Buzz had liked Eddie and the two had traded a few stories over beers in downtown Saigon once or twice. Now he was another Missing In Action -- an MIA. And Bradley was dead.

Who was to say which of them was better off? Buzz had heard stories about how the Viet Cong treated their guests.

He always thought this was no way to fight a war. These bastards struck from nowhere, farmers by day, killers by night. They rarely stood and fought like men. After some thirty minutes of this, Buzz tried to rid himself of these disturbing thoughts, and finally dozed off.

* * * * * * *

Chaos was the only word to describe the scene on that dismal day in 1975. Mobs of terrified Vietnamese stormed the gates of the American Embassy, in a frantic attempt to find ways out of the country. The Republic of Vietnam was crumbling around them, the Communists only a few hours away, and closing in on the city. Ultimately abandoned by the United States, President Thieu's government had fallen and the end was near. The Vietnamese at the Embassy gates had been associates or employees of the Americans. To remain in Vietnam was to ask for trouble. The new rulers would not look kindly on the former stooges of the Saigon puppet regime and the American imperialists.

The situation grew uglier by the minute with the desperate crowd pressing against the fence, trying to gain entry. Some waved now useless security badges, proclaiming their right to enter by virtue of their employment, heretofore a privilege, soon to be considered a criminal offense under the new regime. Some just sat on their luggage and wept. At times, the Military Police had to resort to force to keep them out, hurling luggage and paper bags full of their possessions back over the walls. On the roof of the embassy building, American helicopters came and went, loaded with the chosen few; the fortunate ones. Each time a chopper left a new wave of despair hit the crowd, causing another surge toward the gate, and another numbing rebuff by the MPs. Articles from the rejected baggage of the would-be-refugees were strewn about the sidewalk, mingling with the trash, human and otherwise.

Across the street, Tri Van Khai calmly stood by and surveyed the pathetic scene with a measure of Vietnamese detachment. He watched with considerable amusement as his countrymen begged to be included among those now leaving with such haste.

Like rats, deserting a rotten, sinking ship.

Now shorn of his uniform and sergeant's insignia, Tri regarded the people across the street with disgust. He knew too well what would happen to those who stayed behind – denunciation, arrest, reeducation camps for some, the lucky ones, prison for others. Execution for many.

As for Tri, he did not worry. He had done his job well, posing as a sergeant in the South Vietnamese Army. He would be rewarded. His comrades would be here soon.

Chapter One -- Washington, DC, April 1986

Admiral Rossow hurried into the conference room, followed by his usual entourage of lesser officers, aides, and other hangers on. These were the staff officers -- captains, majors, and lieutenant colonels. A group of people whose careers revolved around Pleasing The Boss. Heaven forbid The Boss should later question them on something in a briefing they had missed. Their noses weren't really brown; it only seemed that way. The Admiral took his seat at the head of the table, nodding to the people in the room who sat down only after he did. An Army officer who stood behind the podium greeted the Admiral. Good morning, sir. If you're ready, we'll start now with the briefing.

Go ahead, Major. A brisk nod.

The room lights dimmed and a young sailor placed a transparency on the overhead projector. The slide bore the agency logo in the upper left-hand corner and the boldface message POW/MIA UPDATE. The major nodded to the sailor who replaced it with another slide showing a map of Southeast Asia. Major Hagen cleared his throat.

The purpose of this briefing, Admiral, is to update you on the status of the Agency's efforts to resolve the POW/MIA issue. As you know, there have been persistent rumors of Americans still alive and held captive by the current regime in Vietnam. Numerous reports from refugees and defectors have been processed; they include alleged sightings of Caucasians in various parts of Southeast Asia, including Cambodia and Laos. Many of these have been proven to be cases of mistaken identity -- Russian advisors and other Caucasian foreigners have been thought to be Americans. Many reports consist solely of hearsay, causing great distortion of facts. In many cases, the stories have proved to be outright fabrications.

Major, how many Americans are still missing in Vietnam? the Admiral interrupted, his eyebrows rising.

Sir, including all of Southeast Asia, the figure stands at over twenty-four hundred as of this date. Of these, just under fourteen-hundred are listed as missing in action, while the rest are carried as 'KIA/BNR' -- killed in action, bodies not returned.

The Admiral's sea-blue eyes opened wide; his aides murmured in the background. Still twenty-four hundred? Christ! Does that number ever go down? He shook his head, still covered with blond hair in spite of his being close to sixty.

The major cleared his throat again. Sir, we're working every day to try to clarify the situation. These reports are being --

Clarify? When there are American boys out there in that hellhole? We're just processing paper!

The major stayed glacially poised. Sir, it is the opinion of the analysts working the problem that most of these people are probably dead.

The Admiral was just as glacial. And where are these analysts?

Well, Mister DeWitt is the section chief, and the other gentlemen seated are the analysts.

The major pointed to the side of the room where four men sat, all in civilian clothes. The Admiral looked them over as though he had never seen them before, although they had briefed him on several occasions. Mister DeWitt, can you explain your thinking on this question?

John DeWitt, a large, balding man with bulging eyes, was a retired Navy commander now working as a civilian for the Agency. He was known for passing the buck, and maintained his reputation by pointing to Buzz.

Sir, Mister Basilio here is best suited to answer that question. Take it, Buzz.

Buzz Basilio stood up, nervous but not at all surprised that DeWitt had ducked answering the question. The Admiral considered him with cold eyes, as if ready to disagree with whatever Basilio said. He was.

Admiral, the overwhelming majority of the claims of live sightings do not stand up to scrutiny, Buzz began. Many of them –

Why not? the Admiral interrupted.

Basilio saw this was going to be real problem. "Because, sir, our analysis of them--and our subsequent investigation of the stories -- has turned up precious little, if any, solid evidence of Americans still held captive in Vietnam."

Rossow's eyes narrowed as he tilted his head to one side. Buzz resigned himself to the inquisition, which was sure to follow.

No evidence, Mister, uh,

Basilio.

"Mr. Basilio. You mean none of those reports turned up anything? Anything at all? The Admiral's face grew redder as he continued to question Buzz. The rest of the people in the room tried to appear stoic. But inside, each one was thankful he wasn't the one on the hot seat. Sir, some of them are still under investigation. There are things, which need checking out. But there still isn't any hard evidence. Frankly, I -- "

Proceed, Basilio, the Admiral prompted him, annoyed.

Well, I think most of the reports are fabrications. You know, people trying to get to America by claiming to know about MIAs and the like.

"You are entitled to your opinion, Mr. Basilio, but I believe that you may be mistaken in this case. What about the reports which you do not consider to be fabrications?"

Basilio tried to maintain his composure but to his colleagues who knew him all too well, his eyes betrayed his thoughts. I may be mistaken. Well why don’t you do my fuckin’ job? He took a deep breath. Sir, it's a bit like UFOs. Most of the reports are phony, but there're always a few unknowns which, for some reason or other, are --

UFOs! The Admiral's face displayed outright indignation. UFOs, indeed! This is a serious issue, Basilio. What the hell have goddamned flying saucers got to do with it?

Buzz's face reddened. Sir, I was just trying to draw an analogy between --

I'm not interested in your ridiculous analogies, mister!

The Admiral turned sharply from Basilio who sat down, embarrassed and annoyed. The old man stared at DeWitt, who was trying not to show his own displeasure at the exchange. "Mr. DeWitt, I'm sure you realize that the American people -- including the Secretary and, I might add, the President himself -- are quite interested in resolving this issue. If there are any of our boys over there, and I, for one, believe there are, it's our job to find them and get them back. Are you sure your people are taking the job seriously?"

Admiral, DeWitt began, I assure you we are doing our best. Everything is being checked out, regardless of the personal feelings of the analysts. He threw a sidelong glance at Basilio as he said this.

The Admiral stood up, prompting everybody else in the room to do the same.

Well, my friend, I want results and I want them soon. I want a report, unbiased, that is, on my desk as soon as possible giving the full assessment of the situation. Understood?

Yes Sir, understood.

The Admiral turned and left, muttering things like UFOs, for Christ's sake and Did you ever hear such bullshit? The officers with him nodded or shook their heads where appropriate.

When they were gone, DeWitt turned to Basilio and said, Well Buzz, you got the old man's ass this time!

Basilio made no attempt to conceal his anger.

Christ, John. You know as well as I do what I was trying to say! Do you really think there are 500 guys running around in Nam waiting to be rescued just because he says they are?

"Buzz, we've been over this time and again. I know your views, but you can't sell that to the Admiral. Besides, we need evidence that they're dead, you know that."

Basilio started to turn away in frustration. DeWitt put his arm on the younger man's shoulder. Look, this issue is a political football. Regardless of what you and I think, and I agree there is a lot of room for doubt, there are a lot of people that believe there are still American prisoners in that goddamn place. Remember, there are a quite a few people out there who still don't know whether or not their husbands or their fathers are alive or dead. And here it is more than ten years since we pulled out of Vietnam.

You mean since we gave up? Yeah, I know.

Well, at least we've got to try to resolve this thing one way or another, not just tell everybody we think they're all dead and close the book on it. Now don't worry about the Admiral, he'll calm down. I'll see you back at the office, OK?

OK, said Buzz as DeWitt left the conference room. That's it, he thought, cave in to the brass hats, DeWitt. Anything to get the Admiral another star and you another grade before you retire. Ah, screw it. Out he went, down the corridors of the Pentagon, thinking of the necessary evils of being an analyst at the Agency. I'll just call 'em as I see 'em, and if they don't like it, well . . .

Lost in thought, Buzz negotiated a corner and almost bumped into Donna Clarke, an on-again, off-again girl friend. The tall, leggy, blue-eyed beauty almost made a career out of trying to land Buzz. She flipped back her long blonde hair and smiled.

Well, if it isn't the spy who loved me. How's the secret agent business going, hotshot?

Typical of her to say something like that. He glared at her. She never did take intelligence work seriously.

Hi, Donna. How are ya?

I'm okay. You look worried though. What's the matter, the spooks gettin' you down?

Aw, I just got my ass reamed by an Admiral. Son of a bitch thinks he knows my business better than I do. He forced a smile. Listen, I gotta go.

She had that tell me another one look on her face. Yeah, I know. Affairs of state and all that. Hey, call me some time, will you please?

Yeah, sure. Later.

Buzz walked away, leaving her to stare at the back of his head. Don't hold your breath. Buzz couldn't take anybody who didn't take him seriously. Or his work.

Especially his work. Ever since he'd started working for the Agency, Buzz had felt he was on a mission. The job in the POW/MIA shop seemed a natural for him, an important job that was interesting, damned interesting. Buzz had left Vietnam back in late 1969 with a feeling that his association with that unfortunate country was not yet