Through the Valley. William Reeder

whatever lay ahead.

      I knew I had to eat. I hadn’t eaten for two days. Another wilderness survival technique helped me find edible plants. I identified a plant that I’d seen in abundance. I took a piece of leaf, rolled it into a pea-sized ball, and ate it. There were no ill effects after several minutes, so I ate a larger piece. Still no ill effects after a short while, so I figured that plant was fine. I ate a bunch of the leaves.

      While I was chomping on leaves, I spied a large ant mound nearby. I walked over and placed my hand on the mound. When my hand was covered with ants, I raised it, looked at them for a second, and then started licking ants off the back of my hand. Pretty acrid taste. I could feel their tiny pinchers trying to bite as I chewed. It was a source of protein, though. If I could find water and eat plants and ants, that would sustain me for the two to three weeks it would take me to get to Kontum.

      Moist warmth ran along the inside of my thighs. I looked down. I noticed my whole crotch was more soaked than the rest of my rain-sodden flight suit. I was pissing myself. I reached behind me and felt a gooey mess in the back of my pants. I had lost control of my bowels as well. Must have something to do with my back injury, I thought. Well I’m a hell of a mess.

      I left my sanctuary and headed for the hills, my goal for the day. It was getting dark. I drank my fill at another stream and found a spot above the bank to lie down and sleep. Off in the distance, bombing continued through the day. Sporadic strikes came much closer, some not far ahead of me.

      I fell asleep, exhausted. Occasional rumbles and rain showers kept waking me. Morning came just as I was finally comfortably sleeping. Sunlight and animal sounds woke me. I struggled up, shivering, got a drink from the stream, which now had a definite cordite taste, and continued my journey.

      I moved diagonally upward, to the left, along the first hillside. The jungle thinned and I was on a slope covered in grass taller than me. Two-thirds of the way up the hill, I came to a large bombed-out area with no live vegetation, only big craters and churned-up earth dotted with boulders, tree stumps, and shattered trunks and limbs. It was a long way around either side. I kept going straight across.

      Somewhere near the middle of the devastation, I heard an airplane. A small U.S. Air Force O-2 forward air control airplane was droning across the sky a couple thousand feet up. I stopped, took off the top of my two-piece Nomex flight suit, and began waving the shirt over my head. The aircraft continued to fly by. My head and my heart fell again. Then the droning sound of the engine changed. I looked up. The plane began a left turn right over me and circled twice as I waved my shirt more energetically. Then he left. I was excited, sure he’d be back shortly with a rescue helicopter. Thoughts of a hot shower and beer at the officers’ club filled my head. My heart pounded.

      I heard the O-2 returning. He stayed off to one side. I looked for the helicopter. Instead I heard the wailing screech of a jet fighter in a steep dive. I squinted. An F-4 fighter-bomber was diving right at me. I fell into a crater and stood in the bottom, fixated on the plane as it plunged toward me.

      Time slowed. The plane plummeted straight at me, releasing two bombs. The plane pulled up. The bombs continued, gliding along a line that had been invisibly drawn to my head. They grew bigger and closer. I fell to my knees, covered my head, and waited. Kaboom! The earth shuddered. I was alive. The bombs struck a nearby crater, not mine. A second F-4 dove. Its bombs fell farther away. The planes left, and I sat there, badly shaken. After a while, I crawled out of the hole, finished crossing the bombed area, and continued on up the hill.

      Near the top, the jungle gave way to an expanse of grassland that covered the gently sloping ridge. My southeasterly course would take me right across the middle. The route around was long and thickly jungled. I was physically and mentally drained. I decided to chance the open field. With much care, I slowly stepped out onto the grass. I scanned the tree line, stopping frequently to listen. I hadn’t covered more than thirty yards when I heard voices across the field. I saw movement in the trees just beyond.

      Oh, shit, I muttered to myself. If they see me out here, they’ll shoot and I’m dead. Blood pounded in my head. Why in the fuck had I thought I could get away with such a dumb-shit move? I found myself repeating, The Lord helps those who help themselves. Then I made a pact. God, get me out of this one, and I owe you. Anything. You name it. I’ll become a rancher and raise cattle. No more Army. No more war. OK?

      I turned left, away from the voices, stealing back toward the cover of the jungle at the edge of the field. With each step, I expected to feel a bullet rip into me. Surely they’d seen me out there. I thought I heard a couple of distant shots, but it was more likely my imagination. I got back to the tree line, stepped in, and breathed a sigh. I hadn’t been seen. Thank you, Lord.

      Pushing my way through the thick jungle, I continued away from the field. My course would keep me well clear of the soldiers there. The hill dropped away on the back side. I stumbled slowly downward. I heard air strikes, but they were far away. Hope returned.

      I came upon a small cultivated field with banana trees along one edge. No sign of habitation or recent human activity. The bananas were little green things. They didn’t look ripe. I peeled one and ate it anyway. Not real good, but it was food. I ate another and stuffed several into my pockets. I continued down the hill and back into the jungle.

      I reached the bottom, worked my way up the side of another hill, and then went back down again. The going was difficult. The jungle was so thick I almost couldn’t see my hand if I held it straight out in front of me. I was not going back onto any more trails, though. I was done with any more idiotic meanderings in large open fields. I was doing everything right with one exception. I was traveling during the day instead of at night. Night was too tough.

      I felt confident. I had several bananas. For the next few days, they would supplement my leaf diet until I found more bananas, ants, or something else. I was good to go. My wobbly steps took on a little more bounce. I continued pushing through the jungle, down the hillside.

      Then, out of nowhere, I heard excited voices.

      “Cái gì vây?”

      “Tôi nghe cái gì çó.”

      “Có phäi çó là con thú?”

      “Không, tôi không ngh ĩ nh vãy! Chúng ta hy đi!”

      Shit. People! I crouched down and kept absolutely silent. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, hear it in my ears. Maybe they’ll think it was an animal and go back to whatever they were doing.

      What if they didn’t? What if they found me? Could be Montagnards. That would be great. I’d be saved. I couldn’t tell if the language was Vietnamese or a tribal dialect. I could only hope. I breathed as shallowly as I could. I felt for my weapon that I knew wasn’t there. I brought my hand back onto my knee.

      A lot of crashing around came from the direction of the voices. I looked up and saw uniformed NVA soldiers pointing AK-47 rifles at my head. They shrieked something and motioned for me to stand up. I did. I was captured. I felt indescribably sick in the pit of my stomach as my world fell away. I’d been struggling for three days to stay alive. I was in miserable shape, but I’d been free and I had options. No more. My soul was awash with anguish. I was no longer a free man. In that instant, I had become a captive of the communist North Vietnamese Army, a prisoner of war, another American POW in the long Vietnam conflict. I had no idea how long they might let me live, or if I was about to die.