Upon entering the thatched roofed large log building the smell of wet fungus intermingled with smoke emanated from a fire burning JP-4 fuel (jet fuel) met Sarge’s nose. ‘No’, Sarge thought, ‘it couldn’t be JP-4 it must be kerosene. They wouldn’t have jet fuel this far out in the boonies and JP-4 is just low-grade kerosene anyway.’
Their captors removed the blindfolds as they entered the building. Sarge squinted trying to adjust his eyes to the dim light - a few lanterns and a large fireplace were the only source of this light. Light, however dim, was the first his blindfolded eyes had not had been used to seeing in nearly a week.
Once he began to focus he tried to transfix his eyes on a vague outline of something Sarge saw through the haziness of the smoke on the other side of the room. At first Sarge thought it was the smoke playing tricks with his eyes, but quickly his eyes cleared and allowed the image to become apparent. It was a man, a large man, big boned and heavy. To big to be one of these diminutive piss ant sized VC (Viet Cong) that tried to pass themselves off for real humans. No, this figure was no VC, there stood a MAN!! ‘Probably’, Sarge reasoned, ‘would go a good 210-220 lbs, and over 6’ tall’. He can’t be NVA (North Vietnamese Army) or VC.’
Sarge slowly walked forward and closed the distance to the specter; the smoky haze had cleared and he could see his captor’s face quite clearly now. The face appeared sun-weathered and rough. Its one prominent feature was a deep scar on his right cheek. A scar that began close to the bottom of his right eye and ended almost at the corner of his mouth. Sarge thought, ‘I bet whoever did that is no longer bragging about it. But the rest of the face,’ thought Sarge, ‘had that coarse rough look that indicated it had seen and done things that Sarge didn’t want to know about right now.’ The one thing Sarge knew for sure, ‘he definitely wasn’t one of those midget NVAs (North Vietnamese Army).’
The room seemed crowded. A number of Sarge’s NVA captors had entered the room and mingled with a group of VC that were already assembled in the room when the team arrived. A number of the VC were dressed in those Boy Scout shorts they loved so much. Long-sleeved shirts buttoned at the wrists, and yes Sarge was right, they had on their Goodyear sandals too. A couple of the VC had on the black pajamas (Sarge never could understand whether they were getting up or getting ready for bed) with the proverbial conical straw hats. ‘They couldn’t be members of the same force that captured us’, Sarge thought. ‘The goons that captured us were dressed in military uniforms.’
Back to Mr. Importance - he was outfitted in an officer’s uniform. ‘I’m right’ Sarge thought, ‘he’s not NVA. I recognize that uniform!! That uniform is... is... Russian!! It is a Russian field uniform!!’ Seeing the green camo (camouflaged) epaulettes with the two horizontal silver stars and the one vertical silver star (three stars in all) positioned on two red stripes on his shoulder, Sarge immediately recognized the three stars as the Russian rank of Colonel.
It was the cover (hat) on his head that immediately caught Sarge’s attention. The Colonel was wearing a blue beret! In the Russian army the Spetsnaz GRU, (the Soviet Special Forces) are the only ones authorized to wear the blue beret! If Spetsnaz could be translated into English the word would be ‘evil’. The regular Russian army is even terrified of them. If this were WWII these guys would be the Russian equivalent of the German SS.
Sarge thought, ‘this ain’t gonna turn out good!’ The Russian Spetsnaz GRU fulfills the same role for the Russians as the CIA, FBI and NSA (National Security Agency) does for the US, with two exceptions: they are merciless and sadistic! They are the all-seeing eye of the Russian bureaucracy and military. It is a massive intelligence gathering operation involving all types of electronic reconnaissance including Communication Intelligence, Television Intel, Electromagnetic Intel, Radar Intel and Infrared Reconnaissance. They report only to the Defense Minister and the Chief of the General Staff. Even Russia’s civilian leadership is denied access to their produced intelligence.
‘If I remember correctly,’ Sarge thought, ‘they are divided into 12 primary departments and Department Number Three covered SE Asia.’ A further thought crossed Sarge’s mind, ‘what would a Russian Spetsnaz Colonel from Department Three be doing out here in the boonies? These high ranking son-of-bitch spooks usually keep their fat asses close to the home fires in Moscow’ The real confusing thing was –the Spets' always dressed in the clothes or uniform of the unit in which they were blending into. But this Colonel was not trying to hide his identity; in fact, he was showing off and was proud that we knew who he was. Sarge though, ‘we’re in deep do-do (Russian for shit) now!!. I don’t mean ankle deep, we’re above the knees with this one. Whatever the Colonel is after, it’s important stuff,’ thought Sarge. Sarge now thought, ‘if he doesn’t care we know he is Spetsnaz GRU we’re not leaving here alive. There won’t be any witnesses to say Colonel Spetsnaz GRU was ever here.’
Sarge could barely see the man standing to the Colonel’s right. ‘He must be his second in command,’ thought Sarge. ‘Another Russian in field uniform - like we need two of these loonies.’ His epaulettes had three small silver stars positioned horizontally on one red stripe, his Russian rank - Senior Lieutenant (SRLT).
Sarge recognized he wasn’t Spetsnaz, no blue beret; only officers ranked captain and above were allowed membership into the exclusive Spetsnaz club.
Of the two, Scarburg reasoned the LT might be his worst nemesis. A Senior Lieutenant, bucking to be promoted to Captain, would be trying to impress his superior, the Colonel. Information gleaned from the Sarge today would go a long way toward getting the LT the honor of donning the cherished blue beret someday.
This LT was tall and lean, 'I bet he's about my height (6'2") and will not go much over 165 lbs ' thought Sarge. 'But he's so fair with his light hair and blue eyes, if I didn't know better I would think he was an American.'
The Colonel spoke first, using fairly good English, broken sometimes, and smothered with a thick Russian accent hinting of the Ukrainian region (yeah, I know Ukrainians speak Ukrainian, not Russian, but what the hell, it’s close enough). “Gentlemen let I welcome you to my little house here,” swinging his arms about the room, “I am Colonel Nikita Ergorov. What, please may I ask, was your mission?”
Sarge answered, “Mission? What Mission? We’re just tourists looking for a good trout stream up here in these mountains. Do you know of a good place to drown a worm?”
Scoffing the Colonel replied, “Funny American … yes funny… Russia we get American films, see funny American propaganda programs. Do you think the Sergeant he be funny, huh Lieutenant?” the Colonel said motioning toward his underling.
Before the LT had a chance to respond the Colonel continued, “He so funny, me thinks I’m going to leave him with you to tell more funny stories, Okey dokey?” Pausing, he turned and added, “Sorry for bad manners…this is Senior Lieutenant Ivan Petrov.”
‘Are you guys for real,’ Scarburg thought to himself.
The Colonel motioned for some of the men in the roomful of VC/NVA to follow him and bring the rest of Sarge’s team with them. Those would be the two American Sergeants, the two ARVN Scouts, and the remaining CIDG troops. Sarge, noticing two more of his men were missing, thought, ‘I guess I know what those rifle firings on the trail were all about now.’
Normally SF teams would have a 1st LT or better still a Captain commanding, but the 5th SFGA, was short handed and ‘do as can do’ was the prevailing policy right now. It was just as well, Sarge knew what to expect and, more importantly, what to do in a POW (Prisoner of War) situation... A new Captain or Lieutenant might not be as experienced as Sergeant Robert Scarburg, especially, in a capture situation.
* * * * *
At first the Russian LT seemed friendly enough with Sarge. He called for a chair for Sarge, inquired about his wound and asked if he would care for a canteen of water? “No,” Sarge snapped back. The LT instructed Sarge’s restraints be cut and allowed him to sit down. Sarge was relieved to be able to rub his
wrists – it had been a week and he had lost almost all the feeling in his hands.
“Where in states you are from?”
“South of Tim Buck Two!” Sarge responded. Sarge followed with, “Who won the Soviet World Series this year?” The Lieutenant looked puzzled at the question, he didn’t understand what Sarge meant but regardless his impatient was growing thin.
He walked over and hit Sarge with a clenched fist, hard, once, twice, three times. Sarge could feel the iron tasting blood beginning to ooze out the corner of his mouth. He had been in similar POW situations before; a little torture with pain was to be expected. 'Been there done that', Sarge thought. He knew this was just the warm-up - the torture would escalate; however, Sarge was determined the Russians would receive no information from him regardless of the pain they inflected.
The LT understood the mindset of his superior, the Colonel - he expected answers, Sarge was wasting his time.
“What no small talk? No chit chat?” Sarge said after the hard bone jarring hits. “That’s what’s wrong today – no one knows how to conduct a proper interrogation.” The LT was very annoyed and wanted to smack Sarge across the face again but beating him wasn’t working. The LT wanted to impress his boss the Colonel; the Colonel needed results and results the LT was going to provide. The fly in the ointment was Sarge - Sarge was not cooperating. His current torture methods weren’t working, the LT decided to move on to his Plan B.
The Lieutenant pointed to a length of rope lying near the fireplace and ordered a couple of the VCs to tie Sarge’s wrists together; however, this time they were tied in front not in back. Once his wrists were securely tied the rope was thrown over an exposed beam and Sarge was hoisted up until his toes could just barely touch the floor. Ivan’s demeanor was not pleasant, in fact, Sarge found him to be quite rude and unpleasant!! Once again Lt Petrov began his questioning, he asked again, “Vat were your mission? Ve were monitoring your radio talk and you guy say ‘Photo Shoot’, what means ‘Photo Shoot’?
Sarge wouldn’t give the Little Russki piss ant the courtesy of an answer. He just reiterated Article Five of the Military Code of Conduct: his Name, Rank, Serial Number and Date of Birth (DOB).
This was also in accord with the Geneva Convention, but someone had forgotten to inform the Lieutenant of its importance. Nevertheless, those bastards never recognized these humanitarian rules anyway but regardless Sarge wouldn’t talk nor explain his mission.
In fact, the mission wasn’t more than a quick trip into Laos to the home villages that were familiar to some of the ethnic minority team members who were trying to persuade the villagers to help establish “in country” bases for future operations. Simultaneously they were to plant acoustic and seismic sensors along the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
Regardless of the seemly inconsequence of their mission Sarge would tell the little Russian nothing, not even the code name for their Ops: ‘Photo Shoot”. It meant nothing; the brass probably picked the name out of a simple team assignment book. Nevertheless, he gave them nothing but Name, Rank, Serial Number and DOB: “Scarburg, Robert Edward Sr, Master sergeant, RA34583764, 29 December 1919.”
Little Ivan’s demeanor worsened, he became agitated and seemed aggravated. He thought the time had come to give Sarge a little enticing incentive - Plan C.
He ordered one the VC to strip Sarge's fatigue shirt off exposing his muscular, well-toned, sun-tanned chest. The bloody 'bandage' still encircled his waist covering the bullet wound in his side.
The LT ordered it removed.
Sarge grimaced - he knew the 'rag' had not been removed in a week and surely was blood hardened and adhering to the gapping hole as if applied by glue. Removing it was not going to be just painful but REALLY painful...! The little VC bastard grabbed hold of the bandage - Sarge tightened his teeth together knowing what was about to come - pain. Like someone poking a stick in your eye pain. The little VC looked up at Sarge and grinned. “You sick sadistic bastard”, said Sarge under his breath. “I'd love to put one of my Number 12's into those two big buck teeth in your damn mouth.” The ‘little VC bastard’ understanding no English continued to grin.
Sarge was right, as the little VC bastard jerked the 'rag' away it hurt... oh, hell did it hurt but Sarge would never give those maggots the pleasure of seeing him yell or exhibit pain...' you sons-of-bitches your day is coming!'
As the sweat dripped from his face Sarge forced himself to look down at the bullet hole, he thought, sighing, ‘Well its not as bad as I thought. At least it’s not bleeding real bad and don’t look infected.’
The LT, pulling up a little three-legged wooden stool, stepped upon it. Both being about the same height looked Sarge eyeball-to-eyeball and inquired about his mission once more, and the name ‘Photo Shoot'.
Sarge was so close to the LT he could smell the salty sweat on his face and the faint aroma of cigarette smoke was still on his breath. Sarge stared deeply into the sky blue eyes of his tormentor and for a second his mind wandered from the pain and ugliness of his present situation - he looks like my first cousin - Aunt Sally's middle boy. What a silly thought he reminded himself - how can a baby faced like this shit get such a close shave out here in the wilderness? Hell this is real Sarge thought, 'That's probably one of my damn Winstons,' and he wanted to tell that Russian idiot: ‘Idiot! “Photo Shoot” is only a name. Get it, just a stupid assigned damn name, no more and no less’.
Sarge’s disposition had not changed and he wasn’t going to give the Russki ANYTHING so he answered with the same Name, Rank, Serial Number and Date of Birth response. This time the Russian Blue Beret in training picked up a piece of firewood and struck Sarge’s hard, very hard, a number of times. So hard, if fact, a flow of blood, started slowing dripping out both corners of his mouth at a considerable greater flow than earlier; it hurt, and had the same salty iron taste, but Sarge chuckled to himself anyway, not about the abuse, but about a subconscious thought he had just envisioned.
His brain wandered to something so funny he wanted to grin. He understood this wasn’t the time or the place to laugh not even a slight grin but he couldn’t help himself; it was like one of those times you get tickled and for some unknown reason whatever happens makes the situation funnier and funnier and you begin to laugh harder and harder. The more you try to stop… just causes the laughter to intensify. This was one of those moments - The Grin! He couldn’t stop, he tried biting his lip (no luck), ran his tongue over the cut inside his jaw (no luck), out IT came - The Grin - It began slowly and then The Grin began to curl the corners of his mouth upward, not a laugh mind you, just a hellacious grin!
This was a grin to be proud of – in another time and another place perhaps; however, the Junior Russian did not appreciate Sarge’s humor and The Grin to him was defiance, and Jr was getting pissed off. Ivan, standing on the stool, struck Sarge again, ”What you think - Ivan stupid? American pig capitalist be stupid one! I know ‘Photo Shoot’, you tell me about mission.”
Ivan didn’t know what Sarge was actually thinking about. It wasn’t Junior nor his stinging slaps, not the mission ‘Photo Shoot”, none of these. Of all things he could be dwelling on it was a person - Einstein! ‘Einstein’, Sarge thought, ‘should be the last person on his mind but it wasn't Einstein himself but one of Einstein’s quotes that made him smile. Einstein said that the definition of insanity was - ‘doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results’. ‘I’ve got it now! Ivan is INSANE!!’ He keeps asking me the same questions over and over and I keep giving him the same answers.
Hence the big grin!!
Now things took a turn for the worse - Sarge heard an indiscernible conversation between men taking place in the backroom. He struggled to hear what was being said; the talking got louder and boisterous, suddenly it abruptly stopped, not a sound – total silence. The next sound he heard was the creaking of rusty door hinges, glancing around he saw the Colonel abruptly storming through the door at the rear of the room and returned to j
oin his little torture group.
Colonel Blue Beret went over and spoke quietly to LT, words that were inaudible to Sarge. When finished he motioned to the crowded room and spoke to them in Russian and Vietnamese. A number of Sarge’s captors were in the room mingling with a group of VC that was present when Sarge and his team arrived. Without another word the uniformed NVAs started to depart. As they began to leave they started rummaging through the American team’s equipment. When the captured ‘Photo Shoot’ team arrived their ‘stuff’ had been piled in a corner of the room. The VC/NVA leaving were now confiscating anything from the team’s pile of equipment that they wanted.
Sarge remained silent until one of the pricks picked up his personal torn, blood stained Green Beret. “Hey,” Sarge cried out, “put that beret back.”
With this outburst the LT again struck Sarge across the face, “You, say nothing!”
Sarge replied, “He can have the beret, it’s the photo! The photo you stupid idiots! What the hell is wrong with you, I said photo... my photo!”
The room suddenly fell silent - it went from a frenzy of noise and chatter to complete silence. The room reacted as though lightning had struck.
Sarge thought he could actually hear the NVA straining to hold their breath and not a word was uttered.
Silence! Total silence! You could have heard a pin drop.
“What said you?” spoke the Colonel, poking Sarge with his finger.
“Photo!” Sarge said, “Photo, I want my photo that is inside my beret. It is my family. I want my photo!”
* * * * *
And then, out of the blue, the Colonel asked Sarge about P.H.O.T.O. He didn’t say MY photo or THE photo. He said the word distinctly – just P.H.O.T.O.! That was the first time Sarge had ever heard the word uttered as a specific word spoken in terms of an acronym. He understood they were not talking about HIS photo or their mission ‘Photo Shoot’. This was entirely something else, a piece of information only a high-ranking Russian officer would have privy to or be interested in. What was P.H.O.T.O., an acronym, a picture, the name of a place? Whatever its identity, it was important to the Colonel and he thought Sarge knew something about it.