The DMZ
The Demilitarized Zone. Otherwise known (and spoken of in terrified sorry-guys-but-I-think-I-just-shit-myself whispers) as the DMZ. Why in the hell had I thought my chances of survival would be better if I followed Owen into this circle of hell? Something tells me I hadn’t. Something tells me I’d chosen to follow him for a whole different set of reasons. Like, not wanting to die alone.
Well, aren’t I little Miss Mary Fucking Sunshine?
You’d be, too, if you’d spent the previous week’s worth of nights dodging NVA patrols instead of dreaming about your soft, warm, non-moldy bed back home.
Although, all things considered, I’m still breathing so I can’t complain. Once again, Owen had sniffed and snuck our way into enemy territory. Don’t ask me how he’d managed it, because I sure as hell can’t explain it. Somehow, he’d heard the enemy before they’d heard us not just once but every freaking time. Somehow, he’d steered us around land mines, had pulled me into shadows I hadn’t even known were there and delivered both of us here in the equally steamy and unending jungle of North Vietnam with no bullet holes tagging along for the ride.
I almost don’t believe my own eyes. I do, however, believe the bruised flesh of my upper arm where Owen’s skinny fingers had just about dug trenches into my flesh. Damn, but that kid is freakily strong and he has zero reason to be; he still hasn’t slept, eaten, or taken a piss from what I can tell.
Just when I decide it might be smart to start freaking out over the impossible package that is Owen, he stops in the middle of the path he’d found in the jungle, turns to me, and says, “Let’s hang out here for the afternoon.”
“Praise-be-hallelujah,” I mutter, collapsing into the nearest thicket of cover, clawing at my boots and socks so that my stinky jungle-rot feet are bare, and doing my damnedest to impersonate a corpse for the next six hours. “Don’t start the party without me,” I think I say before I am out. Oh, yeah. Chez has left the building.
The rain wakes me up, reminding me that I am not, actually, in a building after all. Damn, but I think I’d kill for a roof over my head. When an errant breeze puffs by and I gag, I add a clean pair of socks to my Would Kill For list.
I sit up and receive a nod of greeting from my trail partner. In silence, I swallow down the bundle of rice and mystery meat Owen offers me. Yet again, he’d forgone rest to find me something to eat. When I open my mouth to thank him, he cuts me off, just like every other time this week.
“We need to move out soon,” he tells me.
Mouth full, I nod. We - and by “we” I mean the Allied Forces - have known for ages that the North Vietnamese Army moves men and supplies under the cover of darkness. It’s dusk now and I’m pretty sure we haven’t strayed all that far from the mythical Ho Chi Minh Trail. Hanging out so close to the route traveled by armed military caravans when they’re likely to be moving men and supplies would be suicidal. Well, OK, more suicidal than our self-appointed mission already is.
Owen waits patiently, eyes watchful as I get myself trail-ready. It’s not until I reach for my boots and socks that he shows any emotion at all. This expression, I believe, is commonly known as pre-puke disgust.
“It’s too wet here for foot powder to do a damn bit of good,” I tell him quietly, the contents of my stomach churning at the thought of putting those rank things back on my feet. Ah well. If I hold my breath and lace up tightly, I can avoid the worst of it.
Shoes on, bullets counted, guns loaded, and can of meatloaf still worrying away at the skin beneath my aromatic sock, we resume the trek north. During the daytime, it’s the bombs from Allied planes you have to worry about (and getting your ass shot off by a sniper), but at night, it’s the contingents of NVA soldiers heading south to the DMZ as they guard the supply route. So, really, if you don’t end up blown up or shot up, it’ll be either the scorpions or foot rot that’ll do you in. Too bad they hadn’t mentioned this shit on the recruitment posters.
Once again, Owen’s creepily accurate senses save us from getting dead over the course of the night. More than a few times, his sudden halt prompts me to make like a tree and be still as NVA troops whisper through the jungle a stone’s throw away. On two occasions, Owen simply manhandles me - adding to my collection of bruises - around trip wires and other booby traps.
I begin to wonder exactly how I’m supposed to be giving him a hand, here. So far, it seems like he’s spending a helluva lot of time and energy keeping me alive. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why. I mean, even if he were planning to hand me over to the NVA, what good would I be to them? I’m just a tunnel rat. Owen knows more about those subterranean passageways than I do. On the other hand, I’m the one with the detailed map, aren’t I?
Hm…
The next afternoon, when Owen deigns to let me rest (rather than watch me trip over my own itching toes yet again), I ask him: “Are you planning to hand me over to the NVA or something?”
“Why would I do that?” he asks, his brows lifting with incredulity.
Because I’m pretty good at faking incredulity myself, I continue, eyes narrowed with suspicion-tinged thoughts, “So that you can sneak by while they’re beating the ever loving shit outta me.” I tug the neatly folded map out of my vest pocket. “They’d want to ask me why I have this on me and who else has a copy.”
Owen stares at me for a moment too long to be comforting.
“Shit,” I say.
He gives me a lopsided smile and a shrug. “If you wanna enter the caverns, I’m pretty sure you’d have to go in as a prisoner of war.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll meet you in there.”
“And just how are you going to get inside?”
“I’m a pretty good swimmer.”
“Uh... huh.”
Owen chuckles. “Look, man, just don’t get yourself shot and I’ll get you out of there when I’m done with my To Do List.”
I want to argue with him - shit, the thought of letting myself get captured by the NVA is enough to make me shit my britches - but he’s probably right. The caverns of Phong Nha are said to be impassable. Besides, as a prisoner, I might have the opportunity to find out if JT’s brother, Robbie, is among the captured POWs. Still…
“Let’s make that Plan B,” I cajole in a very unmanly way.
“Sure,” Owen agrees. “If you can hold your breath for as long as I can or figure out how to hitch a ride on the outside of the hull of a boat.”
When I narrow my eyes this time, it’s in more optimistic thought. I eye his long hair, as always worn in a braid, and mutter, “You know what? Get me a dozen yards of rope and that might be possibility.”
$#*@&!