Surviving Hell Read Online Free Page A
Author: Leo Thorsness
maybe 40 feet off the ground. Just to my right was a tall stand of bamboo. I swung to reach for a stalk, thinking to grab hold, undo my chute releases and shinny down to the ground. But I couldnât get a good grip on the bamboo. We carried a one-inch-wide nylon lanyard in our g-suit for just this situation. I finally got it out, tied it above the quick releases, tried to wrap it around my waist and leg and let loose the releases. I used ten valuable minutes getting to the ground.
I was part way up the side of a mountain. My knees buckled each time I tried to stand. Thuds continued to fly over my downed
position but I doubted they could see me through the trees. I tried one more call on my emergency radioâboth my transmission and theirs were so garbled I could not make out words.
I heard voices below me. I crawled on all fours up the hill.
The going was slow; they were gaining on me. A Thud flew over and the bad guys took cover. I crawled faster, hoping to find a clearing before they found me. If they had an opening, the Thuds could strafe the jungle around me, hold the bad guys back and maybe, just maybe, a chopper would show up to pluck me out.
But there was no opening and no helicopter. Knowing I was theirs, the North Vietnamese hollered excitedly when they drew near. I rolled on my back to face them. There were a dozen or more: all young males, maybe 15â20 years old. Most were armed with machetes. I saw one real rifle, an old one, and a couple of wooden rifles, probably for training.
They grabbed my feet and arms, and sat me upright. One pulled out a black cloth bagâpillow-case size. The last thing I saw just before he slipped it over my head was the hate-filled eyes of a young Vietnamese pulling back a machete to strike me. Perhaps it was fatigue or excess adrenalin, but I had no fear.
The machete blow never came. Instead there were a couple of minutes of excited jabber and then the bag came off. They stood me on my feet; my knees collapsed. They stood me on my feet again; my knees collapsed again. The third time they held me upright and began cutting off my clothes: g-suit; boots, flying suit, t-shirt; everything but my bloody shorts.
They insisted that I walk, but I couldnât. They decided to make me walk by beating me. Eventually my collapsing knees convinced them that I wasnât pretending. With sign language, I tried to explain that I wanted a machete to split bamboo, tie a strip on the inside and outside of my legs above and below my knees. They split the bamboo. Eventually four took belts from their pants and I used them to tie the bamboo to my legs. Of course the strips cut into my knees and legs, and stayed in place just a few steps. After a couple of tries, my body and mind gave out. I collapsed into unconsciousness.
I came to in the center of a large net. They had cut two poles,
crossed and tied them in the middle, attached the net corners on each pole beyond the cross. Four men hustled me down the mountain.
Well past dark, we came to a large hut, perhaps 20 by 40 feet, on stilts, surrounded by a group of women and children. They carried me inside. The floor was made of large bamboo poles. The walls appeared to be woven mats. Dried bamboo torches lighted the darkness. Men were squatting along the walls smoking opium pipes. Harry was already there, also in dirty bloody underwear, spread-eagled on his back with wrists and ankles tied. Soon I was in the same position next to him.
Harry and I spoke now and then, although when we did they hit us. Neither of us understood a word of Vietnamese. We both had heard stories that captured American flyers were summarily executed. The conversation around us finally slackened; an older man stood, looked down at us and spoke to the others. Obviously a decision had been made. Knowing the words would cause me a beating, I had to say, âHarry, I think this is a trial, and we may be executed tonight.â In that frightful setting, I will
I was part way up the side of a mountain. My knees buckled each time I tried to stand. Thuds continued to fly over my downed
position but I doubted they could see me through the trees. I tried one more call on my emergency radioâboth my transmission and theirs were so garbled I could not make out words.
I heard voices below me. I crawled on all fours up the hill.
The going was slow; they were gaining on me. A Thud flew over and the bad guys took cover. I crawled faster, hoping to find a clearing before they found me. If they had an opening, the Thuds could strafe the jungle around me, hold the bad guys back and maybe, just maybe, a chopper would show up to pluck me out.
But there was no opening and no helicopter. Knowing I was theirs, the North Vietnamese hollered excitedly when they drew near. I rolled on my back to face them. There were a dozen or more: all young males, maybe 15â20 years old. Most were armed with machetes. I saw one real rifle, an old one, and a couple of wooden rifles, probably for training.
They grabbed my feet and arms, and sat me upright. One pulled out a black cloth bagâpillow-case size. The last thing I saw just before he slipped it over my head was the hate-filled eyes of a young Vietnamese pulling back a machete to strike me. Perhaps it was fatigue or excess adrenalin, but I had no fear.
The machete blow never came. Instead there were a couple of minutes of excited jabber and then the bag came off. They stood me on my feet; my knees collapsed. They stood me on my feet again; my knees collapsed again. The third time they held me upright and began cutting off my clothes: g-suit; boots, flying suit, t-shirt; everything but my bloody shorts.
They insisted that I walk, but I couldnât. They decided to make me walk by beating me. Eventually my collapsing knees convinced them that I wasnât pretending. With sign language, I tried to explain that I wanted a machete to split bamboo, tie a strip on the inside and outside of my legs above and below my knees. They split the bamboo. Eventually four took belts from their pants and I used them to tie the bamboo to my legs. Of course the strips cut into my knees and legs, and stayed in place just a few steps. After a couple of tries, my body and mind gave out. I collapsed into unconsciousness.
I came to in the center of a large net. They had cut two poles,
crossed and tied them in the middle, attached the net corners on each pole beyond the cross. Four men hustled me down the mountain.
Well past dark, we came to a large hut, perhaps 20 by 40 feet, on stilts, surrounded by a group of women and children. They carried me inside. The floor was made of large bamboo poles. The walls appeared to be woven mats. Dried bamboo torches lighted the darkness. Men were squatting along the walls smoking opium pipes. Harry was already there, also in dirty bloody underwear, spread-eagled on his back with wrists and ankles tied. Soon I was in the same position next to him.
Harry and I spoke now and then, although when we did they hit us. Neither of us understood a word of Vietnamese. We both had heard stories that captured American flyers were summarily executed. The conversation around us finally slackened; an older man stood, looked down at us and spoke to the others. Obviously a decision had been made. Knowing the words would cause me a beating, I had to say, âHarry, I think this is a trial, and we may be executed tonight.â In that frightful setting, I will
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