Chapter
1

    Private Jose Gonzales had been in Vietnam for seventeen days. In that time the only action he had seen was in the Saigon's bars. This morning found him standing in battle gear amid the roaring inferno that had been his favorite. The rocket attack lasted only minutes, but the distruction was total.
     As Gonzales watched, civilians sifted through the rubble to salvage what they could. In seventeen days Gonzales had learned one thing; don't trust gooks. As he watched them, he kept his right index finger on the trigger of his M-16. The air stank with smoke making it hard to breath. The fires were out of control and the fire department could do little to control it. Gonzales could see they would never get it out in time to save anything.
     A rumble at the far end of the street caught Gonzalis' attention. He snapped his head around just as an American tank came into view and stopped, blocking the street. The tank's turret turned slowly until its gun pointed at Gonzales. Suddenly numb, he stumbled back against one of the few walls left standing, and waited for the gun to fire. The gun's bore looked as big as a giant Red Wood. It was all he could see for what seemed hours.
     The top hatch opened; the commander popped up and sat on the turret then waved. gonzales, let out a long burning breath. The plastic stocked rifle in his hands felt as though it weighted a hundred pounds. Greatful for the wall behind him, he leandedagainst it suddenly very tired. Gonzales waved back and tried a smile. Taking a deep breath he scanned  the street. The stench of burning flesh was strong as the fire roared around him. Sirens screamed as surviviors cried for the dead. The dying moaned amid the crackling blaze. Around him stood other young american soldiers who looked as nervous as he felt himself.
     Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement of a news crew as they approached him. A curly haired young man perched on the hood of the jeep spoke rapidly into a microphone while the camera swung to pan the devastation as they came slowly down the ruined street. The swung to point at Gonzales, startling him.
    The commentator stuck the mike in his face. "What's your name solider?"
    "Gonzales."
    "Where ya from?"
    "Red Bluff. California."
    The commentator gave Gonzales a thumbs up then turned back to his running commentary.


     Donald Maylin had seen enough. Rising from the couch he turned off  the TV and went outside. Hands deep in his pockets, he leaned against a porch post, looking out at the neighborhood where he had grown up . Jesus, what had he gotten himself into?

 

 

Excerpt
Like all wars, Vietnam has its legends. Among combatants, stories of heroes and battles are told and retold. These we know. Less familiar are those related by former POWs and their loved ones, tales of MIAs who survived, yet never came home. These, though denied by both sides, endure as only truth endures.
Kept as slaves long after war's end, word of their survival has leaked out piecemeal over decades. By word of mouth, in list smuggled out by POWs, in dogeared photographs-in hundreds of ways, though scores of eyewitnesses, evidence of their survival amounts.
Despite everything media and government have done to discredit the whistle blowers, stories of the men we left behind refuse to go away.