BAT-21 (22 page)

He immersed his face in the water and took a long
drink. Polluted or not, it tasted delicious. He took another drink,
then rolled over on his back. A feeling of exhilaration swept through
him. He had finished the front nine of his golf game. Rescue would
now be just around the corner. He had to share his good news with the
FAC; Birddog would be delighted to know he had reached the Suwannee.

He crawled back up the bank to the shelter of the
tree that had stopped his fall, and pulled out his radio. Wonder of
wonders, the radio had survived another calamity intact. If nothing
else, this war had proved that the good ole USA sure as hell made
rugged radios. Or were they made in Japan?

"Congratulations, Bat. Keep up this score and
you'll win the tournament. How do you feel?"

"Bushed. But happy."

"Outstanding. How you doing physically?"

"Bring on Joe Louis." He didn't expect
Birddog to believe that, but what was the point of telling the truth?
He was bone tired, and the fall down the cliff sure as hell hadn't
built him up any. His shoulder was acting funny—not the one with
the knife hole in it, the other one. But damned if he was going to
complain now.

"Good. Because you're in a very hot area.
Angry duffers coming your way. You gotta make like Esther Williams."

"Esther Williams?"

"Affirmative. If that doesn't ring a bell,
try Johnny Weismuller."

"What do I do when I make like Esther
Williams?"

"Make like Esther Williams will do when she
goes to her great reward."

Damn this double-talk. What the hell would Esther
Williams do when she went to her great reward? Not fall off a cliff
like he had! No! Maybe step off the deep end? No, dive off maybe! No,
that would solve nothing. Oh hell! "Not reading you, Birddog."

"Does the name Styx mean anything to you?
Sugar, tango, Yankee, Xray?"

Styx. The river Styx. The ancient myth. You
crossed the river Styx to reach the great beyond. When Esther went to
her final

reward she would have to cross the river Styx.
Which meant he had to cross the river. Now where the hell did they
dredge up that little gem? Probably it was the fine hand of Frank
Ott. "Roger, Birddog. Now I read you."

"Good. You'll have to start right away. No
time to lose. Can you do it?"

"I'll try."

"I got money bet on this game. Don't let me
down. Check in after you've gone to your great reward."

"I don't like the way you put that. Bat
Twenty-one out."

Hambleton clicked off and looked out over the
river. What had looked like a godsend only moments before now looked
like an impassable abyss. It didn't look more than a couple hundred
feet in width, but it might as well have been the Gulf of Mexico. A
curtain of doom began to eclipse his elation. He had to shake it off.
Think positive, Hambone. You've performed miracles thus far. You've
survived for ten days. You've walked through mine fields, skirted
enemy gun crews, threaded an enemy village, fought hand-to-hand
combat for your life. If young Clark can do it, you can do it.
Someone up there is looking after you. No reason He should let you
down now.

The distant sound of crashing brush snapped him
out of his reverie. He had to come to grips with the problem at hand.
If he had to swim that river he would have to strip down to bare
essentials. He took a fast inventory. He would take only his radio,
flares, and knife. His gun, first-aid kit, and other paraphernalia,
including his survival vest, would have to stay behind.

He removed the vest, feeling almost as if he was
parting with an old friend; shinnied up the bank to where he had
spotted a small cave; and dropped the gear into it. He covered it
with silt from the river bank, and then finally turned to face the
river.

He could hear the thrashing of bushes to the north
and south of him. His heart palpitating at the sight of the wide
stretch of forbidding water he had to cross, he ventured out into it
up to his knees. Fool! He'd forgotten something. He could not
possibly swim that river with his boots and socks on. Had to start
thinking straight. He returned to the bank, sat down, and removed his
footgear. He hid them under an old uprooted tree, and again he
cautiously eased into the water.

Wading out, the bottom suddenly dropped out from
under him as he stepped into a hole, finding himself in over his
head. He came up spitting and choking, holding the radio in a vise
grip above his head, trying to keep it dry.

It was going to be tough if he had to swim all the
way across. The current was slow, but it was certainly no help.
Twenty feet from shore he was already fighting fatigue. He had to
rest.

He dropped to his feet, and to his surprise found
them resting on the rocky bottom. He stood up, the water lapping at
his chest. He had guessed the water to be much deeper; hell, he might
be able to walk across. He tried walking for several yards. It was
slow going, but the water did not rise above his shoulders. Then he
realized he had added another tactical error to his list.

The river bottom was lined with sharp, rough rocks
that cut into his bare feet. He stubbed his toe on the next step,
sending a spasm of pain shooting through his body. It would be
impossible to cross that river barefoot. And he was too bushed to try
swimming it.

Again he turned around and headed back to shore to
pick up his boots. Half swimming, half wading, he got back to the
river bank. Luckily he had ditched his boots under that fallen tree,
and it was a visible silhouette in the dark. He found them, sat down
on the log, and pulled on wet socks. Then he pushed his feet back
into the clumsy clodhoppers and zipped them up.

In spite of being wet and soggy, the rubber and
nylon boots felt good on his feet. They had almost become a part of
him; they were made for traveling in water and jungle environments,
and he cursed himself for even thinking of parting with such old
friends. Maybe he was making a mistake leaving his survival vest,
too. Maybe he should go back and get it. And his gun.

Wrestling with this decision, he glimpsed a
flashlight beam darting near the hedgerow he had just vacated. The
decision had been made for him. He headed back into the river.

He swam over the hole in which he had foundered
the first time, then let his feet down to the rocky bottom. He walked
very slowly. He did not want to step into another hole and drown. And
besides the slower he went the fewer ripples and less noise he made
in the water. Quietly, step by step, he negotiated the slippery river
bottom. He was lucky. Except for the original hole near the west
bank, he did not hit any spot with water deeper than neck high.

After what seemed an eternity he reached the far
bank and waded ashore. He lay for a moment, summoning strength. Then
on hands and knees he crawled into the thickets that lined the bank.
He was safe again—at least for the moment—but God, he was tired!
It was all he could do to pull the big dark leaves of the undergrowth
over him before he collapsed.

It took the impatient buzzing of Birddog to give
him the strength to turn on his radio. "Come in, Birddog."

There was obvious relief in the voice of the FAC
pilot. "Good to hear your voice, Bat Twenty-one. How goes it?"

"Esther Williams just went to her great
reward."

"Outstanding. Ready for the back nine?"

"Sure would appreciate a short rest."

"Negative on that. Many fireflies on the
course. Imperative you knock off at least one more hole."

Fireflies? Hambleton sat up and looked out of his
concealment. They did look like fireflies—flickering
flashlights silhouetting figures on the west bank not far from
where he had entered the river. Dear God! Would they cross the river?

"Understand, Birddog. Will tee off shortly."

"Know it's tough, Bat. But more holes will
get you farther from the fireflies."

"Understand."

"On the back nine you'll have to make like
Charley Tuna. Turn left and follow the Suwannee. Length of hole is
very important, so we'll know where you are. We'll play the back
course of Tucson National. Remember it?"

"Affirmative." Hambleton knew the yards
of each hole at Tucson to the inch. Even with his fuzzy mind.

"Good. Tee off now. Check in when you reach
the green of hole number ten."

"Wilco."

"Be careful, Bat."

"Thanks. Bat Twenty-one out."

So he was going to have to get back into the
river, and go with it downstream. He did not relish the thought. The
holes, the floundering, the slippery rocks, the constant worry about
getting his radio wet. But he had to do it, and it was time to go.
The more real estate he could put between himself and the gomers, the
better.

Noiselessly he crept down to the river's edge. Now
even the smallest movement was becoming a real chore. His tired body
sent incessant pangs of protest to his frazzled brain; every exertion
was

the last lap of a four-minute mile. He slipped
into the water and headed downstream, trying to stay near the bank
where it was the shallowest, hugging the overhang. In some places the
water was only knee-deep. The next instant he would be in over his
head, fighting for his life, but always in deadly fear his splashing
would attract the enemy. The darkness further impeded his progress,
tripping him with unseen snags, slapping him with invisible branches.
As he made his way he tried to keep accurate count of his yards
traveled, measuring his progress as best he could in sliding,
stumbling strides.

After an hour of this, Hambleton had to rest. He
half staggered, half rolled up onto a grassy bank. He had only
clicked off three hundred yards of his tenth hole; he still had
another one hundred and twenty to go. As he lay there, deathly still,
trying not to pant too loudly, he heard a splash in the water. It
sounded very close. He snapped to a sitting position, his nerve ends
raw. Had the enemy crossed the river? He reached for his knife and
steeled himself.

And then he could make out the hump that broke the
surface of the river, swimming downstream. A large mud turtle! He had
startled it from its resting place and it was off to find some spot
less populated. He swallowed the heart that had lodged in his throat,
and sat down in the mud, trembling.

He looked back up the river. The flashlights were
barely visible now, and he seemed to be out of range of the voices.
Odd they had not crossed the river. Or had they? He stood up to look
upstream. If there were any gomers on his side of the river they were
not to be seen or heard. Maybe there was one thing going for him: The
river had averaged neck high to his six-foot-two frame. That would be
over the head of an average Vietnamese. If they all had to swim with
their battle gear and rifles, that might be a very discouraging
project.

Careful. He couldn't get carried away on a false
sense of security. He might have the gomers temporarily stymied, but
what they lacked in physical stature they more than compensated for
in resourcefulness and guts. He hadn't seen the end of them. Now he
had to get off his butt and get on downstream.

Wearily he sank back into the river, holding onto
the vines at the bank's edge. His foot slipped, plunging him into a
deep hole. He came up spitting muddy water and cursing. Treading
water, he floated along until his feet again touched bottom. Still
holding his radio up at arm's length, he started wading toward the
bank.

Suddenly he felt something hit the funny bone of
his elbow. The jolt sent a tingling sensation up his arm as he
whipped around. He stepped back. It hit him again, this time on the
chest. He could not believe his eyes as the form slowly materialized
in the darkness.

It was a solid, thick railroad tie! Almost ten
feet long. He reached out and touched it; it bobbed slightly under
his hand. He put his arm around it. The front end submerged, so he
slid it by him and tried again, this time putting his full weight on
the log's midsection. Again it partly submerged, but it supported his
weight.

He had a conveyance! Something on which to ride.
He put his arm around it in a firm grip and floated, grasping the
growth of the overhang and guiding himself along. He strode
effortlessly keeping track of his clicks. By God, this was a hell of
a lot easier. And the log would provide protection to hide behind in
case he should be intercepted. This was living!

He examined the log as he floated toward the green
of his tenth hole. A black smudge came off on his hand. Charcoal. It
was charred on one end. Could it be from the bombed-out bridge
upstream, the one the Air Force had clobbered? Wherever it came from,
whatever its origin, it was a godsend. Providence had provided him
with a golf cart. Now he was going to finish the back nine in style.

In the command post Major Sam Piccard was briefing
Colonel Frank Ott. Piccard pointed at a spot on the reconnaissance
map that had the overlap of Hambleton's golf course drawn in. "He's
right here, Colonel. Just got the report from Birddog—he's holed up
on the eleventh green, there on the river bank."

Ott studied the map. "So ole Hambone's now
tucked away eleven holes. Knowing him, he did it under par."

"According to Birddog's message, he now has a
golf cart."

Ott grinned. "A golf cart?"

"So he says. We're still trying to figure
that one out. He's probably found some floating debris, something to
hang on to."

"Leave it to Hambleton."

Piccard struck a match to his pipe, and squinted
at Ott through a swirl of blue smoke. "War's a game. Cowper said
it."

Ott looked questioningly at the pockmarked face of
the intelligence officer. "Cowper?"

"Eighteenth century poet. 'But war's a game,
which, were their subjects wise, kings would not play at.'"