Should I answer the call from Langley?

As some of you know, I have been holed-up on my friend's ranch, getting some R&R. I have been trying to recover from that terrible ordeal of 06.

I'm not free from the entanglements. My brain is still fried. I wake up with cold sweat. Every dream is a nightmare.

I received a package today -- a small parcel in a plain box. It was postmarked from Wash. DC

I opened it with curiousity.

It was a cell phone wrapped in a white T-shirt. I turned on the power to the phone, expecting the worst. And it was.

The phone rang immediately. It was a recorded message from my "friends" in Langley, VA.

I've been gived instructions to travel to another city.

I have been trying to free my life from the life of intel, if you want to call CIA work a real life. To me it is hell.

But Langley won't let me go. I wanted to be free. But they won't let me go.

Langley found me here on the ranch. I can't stay.

I have only two choices. I can report to the city where they want me. Or I can run.

I lived

I have been through a most horrible experience - torture and captivity. I am free now. But I will survive. When I have recuperated I will send you another post.

Another Step

I just ran. Sprinted, really. I covered a mile of the trail in about 4 minutes. I paused for a second, bending over with hands on knees. I listened and could hear nothing. I had outrun the VC.

Another Chance

I had been anticipating the visit by the VC guard. He would be coming by my bamboo cage shortly. I had been able to fashion a weapon -- a rigid slat of bamboo, about one-foot long, that I had carefully sharpened on a rock under my jail. I had been living in this tiny cage for weeks, withstanding torture and mistreatment. Every night, a VC guard came by every two hours and I had a plan when came again. I heard his footsteps. I curled up in the corner of the 4-foot cage, compressing myself into the smallest package possible. The guard poked his stick into my cage as usual. But this time, instead of poking me, his stick hit nothing. He squatted down to peer into my cage. With my left hand, I jerked on his stick, pulling him off balance. Then I shoved the sharpened stick through the bars into his neck, just below the Adam's apple. It only took a minute for him to die, although his blood had gone everywhere. The body fell close enough to the cage that I was able to retrieve his gun - a .38 caliber Chinese pistol. I fired a round into the wooden latch on the door, gave the door a kick and I was free. The other VC would have heard the shot and they would be coming fast. My legs were tight. I rarely had a chance to straighten them while I was in captivity. But I was charged on adrenalin and I knew if I couldn't run, I would die. After about 50 paces, I was flying fast. The jungle trail was just ahead. The other VC guards had found the body and they were looking for me. I heard gunfire and bullets whizzing through the vegetation around me. I hit the trail sprinting. The full moon helped me to see the way. The VC fired off more wild shots into the jungle. They would pursue me for a while and give up. I was too fast, too afraid, running like a wild man. And I was truly wild, probably crazy, too. After six weeks in a VC prison camp without any human contact, outside my torturers, I knew I was not in great mental health. So I ran.

Another Poke

Every two hours, one of the VC guard would come by my cage. The guards carried thin bamboo rods, about as thick as the "cane poles" I used for fishing when I was a boy. The VC had a standard procedure for disturbing POWs in their cages. The guards would rake their bamboo rod across my cage to make a clatter, which was impossible to sleep through. Then they would slide their bamboo rod into to the cage and poke the prisoners a few times. If the guard was in a bad mood, he might poke hard enough to leave bruises. Every two hours.

Another Meal

I had given up drinking the putrid water. It was foul stuff scooped up from the marshes. The smell and taste was awful. So I decided to maintain hydration from the rainfall. Vietnam got its share of rain, so I collected it the best I could. I was existing in a bamboo cage, a 4-foot cube that didn't give me a place to stand or stretch out. The VC had leaned on me the first two days taking me into their nightmarish hut where they tried to extract information. I didn't talk. My daily gruel would be coming soon. The VC guard slid the small bowl into my cage. It was a was a very watery bowl of very watery white rice. There were no bugs, not much dirt in the rice. Another day.

Another Nightmare

The dream came again last night. Just like it did every night. I was sitting across from Patrick O'Reilly in the Huey, preparing to drop Patrick's team of gerbils into the black jungle of the Duc Thong Province. Patrick specialized in scouting out the tunnels used by the VC in this part of South Vietnam. Patrick was 5-feet 4-inches, tall -- 108 pounds of steely muscle, sinew and guts. Pound-for-pound, he was the toughest man in the Army in my estimation. Patrick and his gerbils would descend into the tunnels to ferret out the enemy. The tunnels were dark, they were booby-trapped and you never knew if the next turn in the tunnel would lead you into a whole nest of VC. But it was important to penetrate these tunnels. Even though the tunnels were usually only 4-feet high, the enemy would transport hundreds of troops from the north into our southern battle zones. As our helicopter descended to drop off the gerbils, I heard the sound of small arms fire from below and I knew our chopper was being hit. The engine stalled for a moment, started again and then went silent. The helicopter was going down -- 112,000 pounds of metal dropping like a dead weight into the marsh. A Huey was not a glider. Within two seconds, the chopper hit the ground, the sound of bending steel and violent collision assured me there would be death tonight. I heard an explosion and found myself a moment later in some tall reeds. The VC who had fired on our helicopter were moving in, dozens of them. Several of the enemy ran right past me, only three feet away, but I was well hidden in the reeds. Our aircraft was engulfed in flames. This entire meadow was overrun with VC. So I began running, bending low to keep out of sight. I looked ahead and saw Patrick on the ground dazed. "Let's go, man. Everyone else is dead. Go. Go. Go." Patrick snapped out of it and we began running for our lives. The vines and vegetation sliced my skin into mincemeat, but I hardly noticed. I was quite a runner and had been a district champion in the 100-yard dash in high school. Patrick and I sprinted for 20 minutes and we finally picked up a trail that was relatively clear of brush. It looked like we were home free. "We made it, Raffy. We made it!" Patrick said, flashing that wide Irish grin. I heard gunfire and Patrick's face froze. I sensed hot dampness on my skin. It was blood. Patrick's skull had been hit with an enemy bullet and his blood was splattered all over me. I found myself on the ground next to the Irishman's body. I heard the sound of footsteps and the metalic clicking of hand-held weapons. It was too late. I was surrounded close-range by six or eight VC and one of them was poking his rifle into my ribs. I knew what was next -- endless days in a 4-foot bamboo cage enduring torture, starvation and the fear of more brutality. Then the dream ended, as usual. My bedsheets were drenched in sweat. Deja vu in my dreams. The same dream, the same ending. Another night, another nightmare.