The Gift

The Gift

Day One

This morning the guard brought food to my underground cell - a bowl of
rice and a beaker of milk - as he has done every day for the last two
years. If I were allowed a watch, I am sure that I could set the right
time by the sound of the key in the heavy steel door.
For two years, I have survived the persecution of my captors and the
torments of my own mind. I have lost the thing that defines me as
human, and I have become an animal. These fetid rags, unwashed for two
years, have been my only possessions, but this morning the guard has
brought me a pen and this notebook. I cannot fathom the significance of
this gesture, but I have become aware of a change in the behaviour of
my captors.
The Vietnamese language has lost its mystery. I have listened closely
and can now obey orders quickly. The guards no longer feel the need to
beat me when I do not understand, and my body has been free of bruises
for many weeks. My use of language has become my defence, and I have
shown them that I can become like them.
Time has lost its potency in the never ending cycle of regularity. Each
day is the same. I have no need for yesterdays or tomorrows. Each day I
relive the events that led to my capture, and each time they follow a
different course. I run, faster than the bullets that whistle around
me, deep into the heart of the jungle. I fire the m16 before Charlie
pulls the pin of his grenade. Sometimes I die in the first explosion,
and I am saved from this nightmare. But there is no escape from the
reality of my underground existence.
I try not to dwell too much on my old life, the pain is too much to
bear. My wife and children are safe in America, and that is all that is
important to me. The war is over, or so I am told, and my family have
long ago mourned my passing. I am an M.I.A., neither alive or
dead.
In the drawer of the bureau in a house in Arkansas there will be a
telegram that begins, "The President regrets...". Surely this is proof
that I have been dead these last two years? It is true, I am buried
underground as deep as any corpse.
I often wonder if the sun still shines in the jungles of Vietnam, as it
did a lifetime ago in America. I would gladly give a whole day's food
for just one glimpse.
I hear the sound of the key in the lock, and I know that I must put
away my pen.

Afternoon

The guard has just left. For the first time since my capture he has
stayed with me while I ate my meal. I cannot understand his new
attitude, it has disturbed me. I have become used to the insults and
abuse that are part of my day-to-day routine, and this new development
has left me afraid. I cannot trust an enemy, yet there is sincerity in
his voice, and I have nothing left to lose. I am already dead, and I
find myself compelled to accept this scrap of kindness.
The guard has told me his name, as if it were of some small
significance, and for the first time I have seen the human face of one
of my captors. He spoke to me about his life, and I detected more than
a note of sadness in his voice.
He told me that he was conscripted into the army at the very beginning
of the war, and had no choice but to fight. He told me, quite calmly,
how his family and everyone he had ever known as a civilian, had been
killed at Me Lai, and how he had sought the comfort of the only friends
that remained. He could have left the army at the end of the war, yet
he chose to live beneath the jungle. For him the war is not yet over,
but at least for him there is hope.

Day Two

This morning the guard smuggled a newspaper into my cell, at great risk
to himself. I could not bring myself to tell him that I cannot read the
language that I have learned to speak. The newspaper is of little use,
yet it is of great significance. It says more than the strange words
printed on its surface, and I acknowledge the spirit in which it has
been given.
I hardly dare to believe that I have found a friend in this place, it
seems so strange. For the first time since my internment I have
experienced a kind of happiness, and I wait with hope for the sound of
the key in the lock.
The hours pass slowly in my hovel, as I watch the cockroaches in their
never-ending journeys across the mud floor, and study the familiar
stains of dried blood and excrement.

Afternoon

My friend has come and gone, and I am left with many questions that
must remain unanswered. He stayed, and we talked while I ate. He placed
his pistol on the floor by his side and told me to pick it up. It was a
curious order, but I have learned not to refuse. It felt strange to
hold a loaded gun in my hand again, and I found myself pleading with
him to take it. What was he trying to tell me by this action? Does he
trust me so much, or was it some kind of test?

Day Three

I cannot understand what is happening. My friend has left me a scrap of
paper on which he has drawn a simple map of the underground complex. I
cannot believe that he wishes to help me escape. Is this a trick of
some kind? But I ask myself, what would be the point? I am already a
prisoner, I live or die on a whim. This new development scares me, and
I realise that I cannot bring myself to leave. This is the only life
that I have known for these last two years, and I cannot be certain
that a world still exists beyond my own.
I have seen the horror of war, and know of the awful weapons of
mass-destruction. I have seen how quickly bullets were replaced by
napalm. Has napalm since been replaced by the atomic bomb? I am scared
of the power that is within my reach. Finally, I have become free to
decide my fate, and I have chosen to remain with what is so familiar to
me.

Day Four

Each visit from my friend leaves me in more anguish. Everything has
become clear to me, and I am left with an awful decision. I have become
the captor, I hold the power of life and death over another.
I sit here and I study the pistol, and I ask myself if I can kill the
only person that has shown me an act of kindness in two years.
My friend needs to escape much more than I do. He has assured me that
there is still a world above the ground, where people live their lives
without the threat of the gunships, and he has painted such a picture
of life above ground that my only desire is to see it once. I cannot
die before I have seen this peaceful world with my own eyes.
Yet still I cannot bring myself to kill my only friend.

Day Five

I have made the decision. Surely I must return the kindness shown to
me by my friend. I have asked him for a box of grenades, which he has
agreed to bring to my cell with my meal. I have never felt so powerful,
so alive. Soon we will both be free.

Day Six

It is over.
My friend brought me the grenades, as he promised, and marked the map
with a cross where the guards quarters are.
He showed no compassion for his comrades who were about to die. They
were like him, prisoners of their own making, and their souls had been
dead for many years.
He smiled and thanked me before turning to await his execution. As I
held the pistol to his head, I hesitated. I did not want to kill this
man that had become my brother.
My finger tensed on the trigger. The bullet entered his head and
emerged from the other side, pulling red streamers in its wake.
The body of my only friend fell awkwardly to the floor, and his blood
ran as free as his soul.
The rest was much easier. Two grenades rolled into the guards quarters,
and the roof rained down to cover the corpses. There was nobody left
alive, and I was free.

And so as I sit on the edge of the Vietnamese jungle, I watch the sun
go down behind the rice fields. I know that I am free, and have seen
the sun again. Though I realise that this world will never be at peace.
It has seen the horrors of war and can never again find freedom.
I study the grenade beside me and I know what I must do...