Operation Thunderhead (12 page)

Outside the house, locals were gathering in larger and larger numbers. Dramesi could hear the noise they were making as he ate. It was possible that he wouldn't make it back to prison. If so, at least the condemned was given a hearty meal—by local standards.

After some time had passed, the mob outside grew quieter but it didn't sound as if the people had gone away. For the time being, Dramesi was the local source of entertainment, and the people wanted their show. The local political leadership knew very well how valuable it was to allow them a view of the enemy. It would help them make even further sacrifices to aid the cause of the Communist North.

Later in the afternoon several people whom Dramesi had already made the acquaintance of arrived at the house: It was the young political officer who had been at his interrogation and conducted the Communist indoctrination outside of his cell. Accompanying the political was another soldier, one Dramesi was also familiar with. The soldier had been one of the men who had ridden in the truck with Dramesi when he was transported to that first prison. Both men were obviously angry their prisoner had dared to try and escape from his just imprisonment at the people's hands.

The two men looked like they were discussing the fate of their prisoner right in front of him, but since Dramesi couldn't understand the Vietnamese language, he couldn't follow the conversation. Whatever was being said, the words were heated and there were a number of quick glances in the prisoner's direction. Whatever was being planned, it probably didn't mean anything good for the recaptured escapee.

The young political officer hadn't been very successful when he had tried to indoctrinate Dramesi during their first session together. But English wasn't his native language and he had been having difficulties trying to get his ideas across to Dramesi in a persuasive manner. The young man's command of Vietnamese was excellent and he was very relaxed in using it. Dramesi found out just how skilled the young political officer was when he took the prisoner outside and showed him off to the gathered crowd.

With his hands tied behind his back, Dramesi was not making a very threatening picture to the crowd. A hush had fallen over the people when the prisoner, surrounded by four armed guards and the political officer, left the house and moved out into the yard. Now there was room enough for everyone to get a look at the prisoner captured by the brave people of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam. The four guards stood about watching the crowd and the prisoner as the young political officer started his speech.

In an almost inaudible tone, the young man forced the crowd into silence in order for them to hear him. Then he started to speak louder and faster. As the sun set and a light rain started to fall, the people hung on the young man's every word. Dramesi didn't know what he was saying, but he could tell that the people were getting worked up again, and their anger was directed at him and no one else. The guards didn't seem to be concerned with what might happen. And the young man extolling the evils of the prisoner might not be able to control the people as well as he thought he could. Dramesi was in for a bad time and he knew it. He was seated on the ground and surrounded on all sides, and the light rain was making him cold. He started to shiver.

The young political officer was nearly shouting in a high-pitched voice. He was gesturing violently and popping out words as if they were bullets, projectiles aimed at the hated American trembling in the mud. One woman started to scream something unintelligible. And that was the trigger for the crowd.

The people rushed forward and started striking at Dramesi. The secured prisoner couldn't protect himself very well, but the crowd's own numbers and their shoving in to get a shot at the helpless man in front of them worked against their goal. People couldn't get much power behind their swings as they struck at Dramesi with bamboo sticks or their fists. The only thing he could do to protect himself was to try and duck his head down between his knees and take the blows on his shoulders and back.

The political officer realized that he had lost control of the situation and the people were reacting more violently than he had expected. Instead of being proud of his manipulation of the crowd, he was starting to be worried that the mob may harm the prisoner. He was a valuable commodity and the punishment the young man could expect for allowing severe harm to come to the prisoner could be very bad. While he shouted at the crowd, the young political officer had the guards also try to push the people back with their rifles. When there was room enough to move, the guards picked Dramesi up from the ground and carried him away.

There was a storage silo nearby, a substantial structure that held and protected harvested rice. The guards tossed their burden into the silo and shut the wooden door. As Dramesi impacted on the pile of rice inside the silo, he heard a lock clicking shut to secure the door. His escape had come so close, only to end on a pile of rice in a locked building. The only good thing he had right then was a dry place to sleep. The rice made a reasonably comfortable bed and Dramesi knew to take his rest when he could.

THE GOOSE AND THE BUG

The rain was gone the next morning. The sun beaming in between cracks in the walls of the silo woke Dramesi where he had been lying on his makeshift bed of rice. It looked to be a bright day for everyone but him. His escape attempt had failed, just when the gateway to freedom might have been in sight.

He lay on the rice and considered his situation, what he had done right and what had gone wrong during his escape attempt. He would have to keep in mind one factor: he'd proven that an American could move across the North Vietnamese countryside, even through population centers, and not draw attention. That had been a big question, but even his very rough costume and “makeup” had worked, at least at a reasonable distance. That was one of the lessons he would have to remember for his next escape; a disguise could help a great deal, was a necessity. And he had to remember not to get overconfident when things went well. People catch people—that rule had been proven and he would not forget.

He wasn't going to speculate too much about the future. Chances were good that he was going to be punished in some way for his escape attempt. It would probably include an extended interrogation session at the hands of the scar-faced man and others he may have embarrassed with his escape. Those ropes, or others like them, were waiting for him somewhere. But thinking about that kind of future did no good.

When a truck arrived, Dramesi was pulled from the silo. Walking to the truck was like passing through a gauntlet, one made up of the locals who were crowding around. The crowd shouted and shook their fists and bamboo sticks at the hated American flier just within reach. But the guards protected their prisoner from the angry mob and got him into the back of the truck safely.

He had spent the night with his hands tied behind his back. Now on board the truck, his ankles were also tied together. The faking he had done to make his wounds look worse than they were wasn't going to work anymore. The guards weren't going to carry him, and they were going to make sure that he could only walk when they wanted him to.

The back of the truck was loaded with supplies: cans of gasoline shared space with the men and a number of hundred-pound sacks of rice. The truck hadn't been as well camouflaged as the others Dramesi had earlier seen and ridden in. They were also going to be traveling in broad daylight, something Dramesi was seeing for the first time. The line of defense of the truck against air attack seemed to be the speed the driver could move it in, even across the primitive country roads.

The vehicle was heading roughly north. Dramesi knew what lay in that direction and a guard answered his suspicions.

“Hanoi?” Dramesi asked.

One of the guards nodded his head. Beyond that, the guards paid him little attention.

From his position on the bags of rice, Dramesi could see that there was very little he could do to affect his situation. He tried to make himself as comfortable as possible. He rested, tried to sleep. It was all he could do, since he wanted to save his energy for later.

The truck drove all day and into the night. Having joined up with a convoy of other vehicles, the group continued north, but at a much safer speed. A speeding driver wasn't the only danger along the roads in North Vietnam at that time. Aircraft roared overhead, illuminating the convoy with the bright light from burning magnesium parachute flares.

People in the rest of the convoy started bailing out of their vehicles as the aircraft lit up the night sky. Dramesi and his guards remained in their positions. In Dramesi's opinion, the flares were too far away to show their truck, and the guards seemed to agree.

Dramesi considered what he might face in Hanoi, in light of the interrogation he had already gone through. He would have to resist their tortures as much as he could, not let himself become intimidated, scared, or confused. If he kept his wits about him and suffered through, when he finally felt himself reaching the end of his endurance, he could lie convincingly.

If a man just broke early and said whatever it was his interrogators wanted to hear, they probably wouldn't believe him. He might face even more torture just to confirm what he had already said. But if a man absorbed the pain and humiliation of torture first, took as much as it would appear someone could stand, then his lies might be more readily accepted as the truth.

Whatever happened, Dramesi steeled himself for what might come. He would speak little and not repeat his earlier mistake. And when he did talk, he would lie whenever possible. He would avoid speaking to the press, hide from cameras, and not speak into microphones or tape recorders. He was an officer in the United States Air Force; his honor was his own and would remain such. The fear of failing at his resolve was the only thing that really frightened him, since it was the only aspect of his life right now that he had any real control over.

If Hanoi was indeed where the truck was going, then it arrived before dawn the next morning. It was still less than two weeks since Dramesi had been shot down. He had been captured, tortured, escaped, and captured again. Now he was somewhere new, and the treatment he received at the hands of his new guards was immediately different.

Getting him out of the truck, Dramesi's hands and feet were untied at last. Guards wearing green uniforms stripped him of all his clothes, and his boots were taken. He was given a pair of black shorts and a short-sleeved black shirt to wear. His hands were once more tied behind his back, though his feet were left untied. A blindfold was put across his eyes so he couldn't see where he was, where he was going, or what might be around him.

The guards led their prisoner into a building of some kind. Dramesi could tell that they had passed through a gate or door of some type and were now indoors. This was confirmed when he was led into a small room of some kind. The sound changed as it bounced off close-in walls. Then they were passing down a tunnel, a corridor within the building probably. The footsteps of the soldiers and the slapping sounds of Dramesi's bare feet echoed off the walls. Stopping, turning, and going up a few steps put the group into another room.

Barefoot, bound, and blindfolded, Dramesi stood in the middle of the room and waited. He didn't have to wait long.

The echoes of footsteps came into the room, and not the sounds of the usual sandals, sneakers, or bare feet. This was the solid sound of military boots striking the floor, and there were a number of them. The bootsteps stopped and there was the sound of chairs scraping and people shuffling about. Then all the sound stopped. The guards moved Dramesi from where he had been standing, put him into position, and removed his blindfold.

Blinking at the sudden glare, Dramesi was in front of a table with two lamps on it, one at either end. As if it were a scene from some kind of old movie, the lamps were pointed at him, their brightness blocking his view of whoever was seated behind the table.

Gradually, Dramesi made out what lay beyond the lights. There were five men seated behind a cloth-covered table. In front of each man was a pad of paper. Each man was wearing some kind of uniform, a few being different from the others, but none showing any signs of rank that Dramesi could recognize. It appeared that the man seated at the center of the table was in charge. At least he was the one who signaled the guards who came up and untied Dramesi's arms. The prisoner just stood and waited.

Finally, one of the men behind the table said in English that it was necessary that Dramesi bow to his captors. He was ignorant and would have to show the proper respect. Standing still, Dramesi remained silent.

The defiance of the prisoner seemed to anger the man speaking. He wanted to know if Dramesi understood what he was supposed to do. He was to stand at attention; he would have to bow. Didn't he understand this?

“Yes,” Dramesi said, “I understand.”

He spoke, but did not move, and certainly didn't bow. The man at the center of the table once again indicated to the guards. A stool was brought up and placed behind the prisoner. Dramesi was to be seated and face the table. Now that the glare was out of his eyes, Dramesi looked about the room. Over in the left corner of the room was his gear; his torn flight suit and boots were there as well as his prison clothes. Even the burlap jacket he had made was in the pile.

That was all he noticed as he sat down on the small stool. Sitting up straight, Dramesi made a point of staring straight ahead and sitting on his hands. He did not want any unintentional trembling of his hands to give away the nervousness he felt. This was like a scene from an old war film, one where the Gestapo was going to question the captured hero. Only this wasn't a movie; the men behind the lamps and the table were very real, and so was the torture Dramesi was about to undergo. He wasn't the hero in a film. But he was damned if he wasn't going to at least try to act like one.