his life when he was captured by the Vietcong during one of these raids. His team had been betrayed by a renegade South Vietnamese (ARVN) officer; his entire five-man team had been ambushed and taken captive. He was kept prisoner for ninety-seven days, under the harshest possible conditions. His fellow captives had been hideously tortured and beheaded. Their genitals were cut off and stuffed in their mouths; their heads were then speared on bamboo stakes and left near American forces as a sign of contempt, and as a reminder of their disregard for human lives.
It was during this ordeal in Vietnam that Grant developed an intense sense of survival that would help him twenty years later in Afghanistan.
Jeremy sat on the ground in front of his small tent and reviewed his current situation. Here he was on a high plateau in the mountains of Afghanistan trying to convince a bunch of fanatical Muslims to accept his help. Ten days of stressful evasion from the Soviets had worn his body down. The situation was both mentally and physically as exhausting as his capture by the Vietcong. His thoughts flashing back to a similar debilitating fatigue he’d endured during his escape from the VC, and of a sadistic little VC major two decades earlier.
His current sheer physical exhaustion and mental fatigue overpowered him and he promptly fell asleep. Although his memories of Vietnam were not pleasant ones, his mind seemed to force him to recall this episode in his life. Within a few seconds he was there, back in the stinking rice paddies and jungles of Vietnam.
His sleep was deep, yet restless. Throughout his ordeal as a P.O.W. in Vietnam, Jeremy was segregated from the rest of the prisoners, and only learned of the atrocities perpetrated against his fellow team-members from a verbose guard. Upon hearing of these atrocities, Jeremy was horrified and shocked at the monstrous hate of his enemies. He reflected on a very “apropos” quotation that he had learned while at West Point, “Communism has nothing to do with love. Communism is an excellent hammer which we use to destroy our enemy (Mao Tse Tung).” The VC soldiers who had committed these atrocities were mere instruments in the overall communist strategy. Jeremy’s dream continued. Although, Grant was now fast asleep on the ground in Afghanistan, his thoughts were far away in Vietnam.
Still dreaming, Grant relived his entire Vietnam capture. While in this deep sleep, Grant began to realize that his life was only valuable as long the VC needed him. When his usefulness ended, so would his life. He was but a pawn in their propaganda campaign and he feared for his well-being. The Vietcong were particularly proud of the fact that they had captured an intelligence officer, even worse, a possible CIA-sponsored “Phoenix” team member. The local VC commander, a foul-mouthed dwarf named Van Trang Dong, considered Grant his personal property, and was determined to march him up and down the entire country to prove his merit as a tactical commander. Although the vicious little major had nothing to do with their capture, he went around bragging of his cunning and stealth in capturing these vicious “Imperialistic American Dogs.”
Grant often wondered why major Dong had such a particular dislike for Caucasian officers, especially intelligence officers. One month into his captivity, major Dong called Jeremy into his rundown office for another one of his torture and questioning sessions. The slimy little major began to interrogate him.
“Grant, you will talk now!”
“You will tell me everything you know; I am tired of hearing your excuses, CPT Grant.”
“The Vietnamese people deeply love independence, freedom and peace. But in the face of United States aggression, they have risen up, united as one man.” “Do you know who said this?” Major Dong asked, his voice increasing in pitch.
“Of course not, you wouldn’t,” shouted the small major. “Our great leader, Ho Chi Minh. I feel the same way,” screamed Dong, in a hysterical manner, his small dark eyes bulging like a small bulldog giving birth to a St. Bernard.
“Your negative attitude has forced me to pursue a course of questioning, which you will long remember.”
“Major Dong, you already have all the information you want. You know I can’t tell you anything else, even if you kill me,” Jeremy stated.
“Oh, no! Death is too easy for you, I guarantee you will talk and you will suffer.” Major Dong’s eyes had a habit of bulging out of his head when he got excited.
Major Dong suddenly began screaming French, German and Arab obscenities at him.
“Espese de con,” “Salopar,” “Enculez,” “Aschloch,” and “Anta keebir haloof, “Zub anta”, in Arabic, (Asshole, bastard, faggot, big pig, up your ass).
Grant looked at major Dong in total amazement, not understanding, nor knowing what was said to him. Jeremy waited patiently not comprehending, and awaited an explanation. Dong finally calmed down long enough to blurt out, his lips quivering with hate, “You filthy white trash.”
“I will show you what real pain is! You think you are invincible, don’t you?” Dong screamed.
Still dreaming, Jeremy slowly looked up and pondered whether or not he should challenge this madman. While reflecting on his delicate, and dangerous situation, Grant’s thoughts once again wandered in a desperate attempt to escape this horrible predicament, a dream within a dream. These experiences had been so traumatic that he was able to escape the horrors by shutting off reality. His favorite means of doing this was closing his eyes, and drifting off the planet. Escaping the reality within a dream by falling asleep in his dream and escaping his torturer.
Once again his eyes slowly closed, as he inwardly shuddered at the thought of this little maniac. Jeremy desperately wanted to forget his current circumstance. He forced himself to recall another of the many famous quotes his history professor had taught him at West Point. It was, as usual, a very good quote. His history professor had forced the entire class to memorize dozens of these small gems, and perhaps now it would keep him alive. Remembering these often antagonistic quotes kept him from losing his sanity. Grant was fascinated by the fact that after all these years he was still able to recite these quotations by heart.
“A communist is a like a crocodile, when it opens its mouth you cannot tell whether it is trying to smile or preparing to eat you up.” (Winston Churchill).
One of Major Dong’s sudden outbursts brought Jeremy back to reality. Nah, he thought, this guy is too crazy and he didn’t feel like ending up in the soup pan for dinner.
“Well, everyone talks eventually, and you will, too,” Dong shouted.
“CPT Grant, you probably think you have been mistreated? Don’t you?” shouted Dong.
“You now will suffer, the way the French made me suffer. The French tried to break me! Oh how they tried!” He whimpered.
Major Dong seemed to lose control of his body and slowly sank to his knees. His face was twisted in a hideous mask of pain and grief. The entire room was shocked by this display of weakness. Twenty seconds slowly ticked away, before the small major quietly regained his composure and resumed his ferocious attack on Jeremy.
“Yes, I fought the French at Dien Bien Phu. You, like them, will lose this war! You do not have the spirit or strength for your cause. You cannot defeat our people,” ranted Dong, only pausing for breath.
“I was captured by members of the 5th Parachute Regiment of the French Foreign Legion,” shouted Major Dong.
“I was leading a small reconnaissance
