Sarge decided to toy with them and see if he could find out as much as he could about P.H.O.T.O. He couldn’t let on he was playing them, he wanted them to think he actually understood what the letters meant. “What do you know about P.H.O.T.O.?” Sarge asked.
The Colonel stepped upon the LT's stool - facing Sarge with noses almost touching - demanded, “Tell me about P.H.O.T.O.! What you know? I know you know P.H.O.T.O. You use ‘Photo Shoot’ talk on military radio. Your mission to look for P.H.O.T.O. and takes shoot camera pictures?”
Sarge answered, in his best southern drawl, “Yeah, photo, I got me one of them photo makers one day at the PX (Post Exchange Store). Funny thing too, I think they called it a Polaroid. Smile… push the little button and presto out pops this photo your talking about... If you want Colonel, you can let me and my team go. I’ll send you a Polaroid photo maker for Christmas; yeah, one for you too, Junior. Wait a minute - do you heathens celebrate Christmas?”
Breathing heavily, the Colonel, his face again an inch from Sarge’s face; so close Sarge could also smell his salty sweat dripping down the ass hole’s face, he could also detect the essence of cigarette smoke on his military fatigue shirt. If he got any closer Sarge thought he might even identify the brand smoked! The Colonel asked, “What you know Pac Toul?”
Sarge was speechless. ‘This is big… that’s why this Russian big shot is here,’ Sarge thought. ‘What was ‘Pac Toul’, a place, a thing, a name, what do you suppose? And The P.H.O.T.O. - how was it connected to this ‘Pac Toul? Somehow the Colonel thought we had knowledge of it. I bet the loud commotion in the backroom was about this P.H.O.T.O. business.’ Sarge didn’t know what The P.H.O.T.O. or Pac Toul was, but he knew the Colonel was pissed off.
The only answer that Sarge could provide was ‘I don’t know’, but he knew that would not satisfy the Colonel so he just responded with his usual Name, Rank, Serial Number and DOB answer: “Scarburg, Robert Edward Sr, Master Sergeant, RA34583764, 29 December 1919.”
* * * * *
The Colonel was getting impatient and his Spetznas training was beginning to surface. As he stepped from the stool he said, “So Scarburg… Scarburg that is name kind your… your funny book man – Superman. Both you fellows have “S” name. You both think you Man of Steel. Me thinks you need Superman “S” so you and me do not forget you Man of Steel.”
The Colonel produced a large Ka-Bar knife and began to carve a big “S” onto Scarburg’s chest, a little part of the “S” one piece of skin at a time. The Ka-Bar was a large, steel, razor sharp, leather handled, 10” long American bowie knife. The U. S. Marines were the big users of the Ka-Bar. It appeared that whoever was its original owner; he obviously had no further use for it. The VC had obviously “borrowed” it.
Now the Colonel used the Ka-Bar to carve the Superman "S" symbol on Sarge's chest. The questioning process followed this routine: Colonel asked questions about The P.H.O.T.O., Pac Toul and ‘Photo Shoot’- Sarge responded with Name, Rank, Serial Number and DOB.
Colonel cuts small piece of “S” from skin on chest.
Colonel repeats questions… Sarge responds the same answer… more flesh is removed from chest… on and on this routine proceeds.
Sarge’s captors still had ropes tied to his wrists, suspended from a beam with the tips of his toes barely touching the floor. With each excruciating cut from the Ka-Bar’s finely honed steel tip, Sarge would bite his lip so as not to give those bastard Russkis the pleasure of witnessing him scream out. Salty sweat dripped down his face and red sticky blood flowed down his carved tanned chest and puddled around his pant's top.
Both the sweat from his face and blood from his chest comingled with blood from the wound in his side; this blood and sweat continued down to his trouser top and soaked the legs of his jungle fatigue pants.
This process went on and on for, what seemed like, hours but Sarge would not tell them anything. His mind drifted, 'if this were a movie the cavalry would come over the horizon about now and save us!!'
They slapped him, hit him with rifle butts, punched his bullet wounded side, they continually tortured him but he would not tell them anything, nothing, nada, zero.
The Colonel thought to himself, ‘This American, he be very honorable man, very courageous, but very stupid. He tell me about P.H.O.T.O. and ‘Photo Shoot’ he and his men will still die, but quickly, not slowly.'
How ironic, Sarge WAS honorable, he WAS courageous, but in a way he WAS stupid. Not the book type stupid but in the technical definition of ‘Stupid’: “Showing a lack of intelligence.” In this case Sarge lacked military intelligence concerning P.H.O.T.O and Pac Toul.
At last, after analyzing the situation, a plan flashed into Sarge’s head. Kinda like the light bulb above the cartoon character's head when they had an idea.
He had concocted a scheme that might get them out of the Colonel's place alive.
He reasoned if he were unconscious they might have to lower him from the rafter and try to revive him before more questioning could continue. Once down he could… he could… well he hadn’t figured that out yet. Something would come to him he believed, right now he would play it by ear, so to speak.
He began this first phase of his plan: his neck muscles fell limp his head dropped down with his chin resting on his bloody chest, the tension in his body relaxed - he pretended to pass out.
The buck-toothed VC punched him in the body once... no reaction; he struck him hard against his head... Sarge showed no reaction. LT Ivan pricked him with the Ka-Bar... no response, then he punched his bullet wound with his fist... still no reaction. The pain was almost unbearable but they were not going to get him to cry 'uncle'... he didn't flinch.
The Colonel, seeing they were getting nowhere fell right into Sarge’s plan – he ordered Sarge cut down from his suspended position and revived.
‘Things are working out perfectly,’ thought Sarge. ‘I’ve got them right where I want them now.’
The Colonel turned and spoke to the remaining soldiers in the room, “Take break, weak American can not take little interrogation. We eat, drink and try again in little while.” At the mention of eat and drink the soldiers shuffled to the yard outside to chow down (eat).
* * * * *
The accomplishment of Phase I was now complete - he was down from the rafter and untied - begin Phase II (which just occurred to him). Sarge had noticed the Lieutenant possessed a Spetsnaz knife (the Russian Spetsnaz knife is built with a powerful spring installed inside its grip allowing the blade to be ejected like an arrow; in reality it is a ‘shooting knife’), the LT has this knife attached loosely to his belt.
Sarge reasoned, ‘If I could grab that knife I’ll have a chance.’
The Colonel ordered the LT to throw a bucket of cool water in Sarge's face to revive him.
As the Lieutenant bent down to douse Sarge’s face Sarge sprung into action, surprising the LT. Sergeant Scarburg reached, quickly grabbed the knife from it's sheave and pushed the LT aside for the moment.
The Colonel turned rapidly to grab Sarge, but too late.
Sarge’s hand that held the Spet knife was already raised and the knife was pointed directly at the Colonel’s heart. Without a seconds hesitation Sarge fired the 'shooting knife' point blank, directly at the Colonel’s chest.
Sarge didn’t care precisely where it hit just as long as it struck the Russian bastard's chest. The blade of the knife ejected from its mount, flew straight toward the Colonel and imbedded itself deep within the center of his Spetsnaz camouflaged shirt.
He gasped once, reached up with both hands in an attempt to remove the blade, grasped the blade, exhaled loudly, his knees crumbled and he fell, like a sack of flour, to the floor.
Sarge immediately reached down and grabbed the Colonel’s sidearm, an automatic Russian Tokarev pistol. At the moment he didn’t care what type or model it was, just as long as it contained bullets and would shoot.
Sarge turned toward the LT who had gotte
n up and began lunging toward him; however, before LT Petrov could grab him Sarge instinctly thrust the pistol's muzzle into his Russki chest and pulled the trigger...
It was loaded!
There was a great eruption of noise, smoke and the metallic clank of a spend shell casing striking the floor…‘Great,’ he thought, ‘it worked’, the Junior Russian collapsed in a heap on the floor joining the Colonel. A trail of wet glistering crimson began flowing out from under the now limp body onto the wooden floorboards.
Before he could reflect on the moment’s happenings Phase III was immediately at hand… how to handle the soldiers in the yard? He knew they would be back in the building in a moment after hearing the pistol shot and all he had for defense was the remaining bullets in Colonel’s Tokarev firearm. He didn’t even know how many rounds remained in the magazine, if any! To make matters worse, all the M-16 rifles belonging to his team were outside in the yard with the NVA and VC.
Before Sarge's feet had time to move he heard the whirling ‘whomp,’ ‘whomp,’ ‘whomp’ of helicopter blades, and the air filled with the sound of machine gun fire coming from high above the building.
This building appeared to be strongly built and fairly substantial but regardless of it’s strength it was now being riddled and shaken to its very foundation; the unleashing of 2.75” rockets and machinegun fire from the helicopter whirling above was savage… but he recognized that noise… that wasn’t noise, that was pure music… that was an OD (Olive Drab color) Green UH-1D Huey, and it was the property of the U.S. Army.
The explosions and small arms fire became so loud he could hardly hear himself think but regaining his composure he started to bolt across the room. He had only taken a couple of steps before the last sounds his ears perceived was an excruciating loud explosion followed by the tearing of timbers and the crashing of planks and boards. Over the din of this destruction he could hear loudspeakers playing the tune, ‘Gerry Owen’.
At this same instant he was blinded by a terrible flash of intense bright light and his body was enveloped in the most extreme heat that he had ever experienced… then as everything was beginning to go black his saw the unit insignia painted on the nose of his rescuing flying angel… a gold shield with a diagonal black stripe and a black horse's head in the upper right corner... it was... it was...
The Cavalry... Huey helicopters of the U.S. Army’s 1st Cavalry Division...!!!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE 75TH FIELD HOSPITAL
Thursday 13 July 1967
The air in the room felt cool and the bed soft and the sheets white and clean. His face close shaven and his light blue striped pajamas had a wonderful comfortable lived-in feel. Everything had a refreshing, antiseptic smell.
Sarge was awake, the first time he had been conscious since the helicopter attack in the woods almost two months ago. He was now trying to take in all the mysterious things he was seeing around him.
Everything was blurry and out of focus.
Presto! That little proverbial light bulb appeared over his head… he saw it clearly now… ‘Nah, you can’t fool ol’ MSG Scarburg’, he thought to himself, ‘I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday’… he realized, at that very moment, he was… was… dead!!
He had his eyes open but he couldn’t recognize anything in the room but a couple of vague shapes.
Are they Angels?
Oh no! – Please no (he gasped)… not… not… Devils!!
‘Please let them be Angels,’ he thought.
He peered into the cloudiness his head was creating, staring as hard as possible to see if he could make out the two shapes he knew was standing next to this wonderful, clean, good smelling bed. ‘This had to be heaven’, he thought to himself. ‘Hell would be hot and dirty, and I wouldn’t have this… this… WONDERFUL bed. Now come on eyes, God would certainly let me have perfect eyes in Heaven, wouldn’t he?’
Speaking in a soft whisper, one of the shapes said, “I think he is beginning to come to.”
“What was he saying about ‘Heaven’, I couldn’t make it out’, questioned the second shape.
“If he thinks he’s in heaven, then he’s going to find out what hell is all about in the next few weeks!” spoke the first shape again.
By now his brain began to clear away some of the smoke and fog and he began to distinguish the real from the imaginary. The first talking shape was a woman. God what a woman, she was dressed in all white with orange hair! She must have been seven feet tall, built like a linebacker with the disposition of a drill sergeant. Oh, yeah, now he could see her plainly. ‘Oh no, this can’t be Heaven, it must be Hell!!’ thought Sarge.
As more fog dissipated he recognized she was a nurse, an Army nurse, no less. On the collar of her stiff, freshly pressed, white uniform was pinned a Major’s Gold Oak Leaf. Her black plastic nametag read 'O’SULLIVAN'.
Unknown to Sergeant Scarburg her full name and duties were: O'Sullivan, Margaret Ann, Major, Chief Nurse at the 75th Field Hospital at Pleiku, South Vietnam.
She had been in country for almost a year. Her DROS (Date Returned from Overseas) was coming up pretty soon and she would soon be going home. Gruffness and ill temperament, was Sarge's first impression of the Major; however, nothing could have been farther from the truth. Major O’Sullivan had been beside the bed of MSG Scarburg in this Intensive Care ward for the past two months. She checked on him when she first came on duty and he was the last patient she looked in on as she was going off shift.
Sarge could now plainly see the second figure in the room. The shape was not another drill sergeant posing as a nurse this was a man. This man was dressed in a Class-A Army uniform with railroad-track insignias on his shoulder indicating that he had the rank of Captain. MSG Scarburg, at first, only glanced at the Army Captain… then trained his eyes on him… stared intensely at his face…I know this man! Damn if I don’t… but where do I know him from… who is he...? Can it be...? No… no… it’s not possible… “Robert, (barely audible) is... is... is that you?” Sarge asked the Captain.
* * * * *
“Hey, Pop!! Robert, Jr. said softly, “yeah, it’s me. Welcome back to the land of the living, you ol’ s.o.b!!”
“Son, what’s going on? I thought you were at Stanford getting that post-hole digging (PHD) degree or something! When…? Where…? Why…? I’m confused. You in the Army! Your last letter never mentioned you in the Army. Here in Vietnam… I... I don’t know what to say, my minds a blur… I… I…
“Mom knew all about it, but she and I did not want you to worry about me. From the looks of things you had enough to do just keeping yourself alive. I thought it best to keep you in the dark until the time was right. I guess now is the right time.
Major O’Sullivan stepped up beside the bed and touched Captain Robert Edward Scarburg, Jr. on the arm, “Let’s let him sleep and get some rest… you both can talk more later. Now that he is beginning to come around he should begin to get stronger and you both will have plenty of time to reminisce. But before you leave let me show you the cuts on your father’s chest and how well they are healing. After showing the Captain Sarge’s chest wound Major Sully said, “would you mind stepping outside I need a few words with you.”
“Certainly Major," he uttered as they both walking out into hallway.
“Captain, I wanted to tell you something and also to explain something. Sergeant Scarburg, your father was hurt pretty badly when the ‘chopper brought him in. We had to put a big chuck of metal in his head and you saw the cuts on his chest are almost healed but I’m afraid he’ll always have that big ‘S’ scar that the Viet Cong carved on him.”
“Why…? Why…? Why a big ‘S’ on his chest, why would they do that?”
“’Fraid I don’t know, Captain, looks like they tried to cut the design from Superman’s costume – but the 2nd thing I wanted to mention was his nickname that the hospital staff have been using since he’s been here. We meant no disrespect, but while you’re here you
might hear them use it and get upset – again we weren’t trying to make fun of his injury and we were in no way making light of his injury.”
“What is it that you are trying to tell me Major?”
“Captain… we have been calling Sergeant Scarburg… Big... Big... Big ‘S’!”
“Oh shoot Major, that’s fine, you don’t know my Pop, hell he will get a kick out of that!”
“Thanks… thanks Captain! I’ve been nervous about talking to you about it.”
“No, thank you Major for taking such good care of him, I’ll be back tomorrow. I’m staying in the BOQ (Bachelors Officers Quarters) just down the road. I’ll definitely be back, bright and early, because I have something to give him, and he and I have some things we need to talk about! Lets go back into his room and I will say goodbye for now.”
“Pop, I’ll see you tomorrow and we will talk more. Right now get your rest... I love you.”
With this he opened the door and stepped out onto the shiny brown tile of the hospital’s hallway - leaving the room to Sarge and the Major.
“Major," said Sarge. “Ma’am where am I?”
“Sergeant, you are at the 75th Field Hospital at Pleiku. I am Chief Nurse Major Margaret O’Sullivan. My friends call me ‘Sully’ and since I have seen every inch of your puny naked body and I have put up with you for as long as I have, I suppose we could be considered friends – permission granted for you to call me ‘Sully’ as well Sergeant Scarburg.
You are at present in the Intensive Care ward and have been here for the past two months. When the Med-Evac ‘chopper dropped you off, we didn’t give you much of a chance to survive. Fortunately, you had one of the best neuro-surgeons in Vietnam assigned here at the time you needed a pros hand. Without him, I doubt if we would be talking today.”
“How bad Major, sorry... ‘Sully’?
“Well, let me think - what wasn’t wrong with you. When we first triaged you, I ran my hand down through your hair looking for cuts. As I passed your left ear, my fingers disappeared into a hole. Not just any ol’ hole, mind you, I mean – a hole!! Part of your head was missing! Sorry but that little piece of steel behind your ear is holding what’s left of your brain in. You had burns all over your body. You had severe traumatic injuries consisting of cuts and lacerations riddled with tremendous amounts of shrapnel, dirt, rocks, sticks, pieces of wood and other debris, if there are any other kinds of debris left. Needless to say, the VC cut, bruised, burned or inflicted about as much injury to your body that you could stand.”