A Tale of Two Prisoners

It seemed a quiet afternoon in Tra Khe village near Danang as U.S. Marine Sergeant James Dodson, 23, of York, Pa., went out on patrol. He passed out candy and C rations, took the village children for a ride in his Jeep, helped with such chores as rice harvesting and mashing. Suddenly he was slugged from behind. When he regained consciousness, he was being trussed, like some modern Gulliver, by six Viet Cong, who led him off into the jungle.

For three days the marine tramped bootless through Viet Cong territory. Except to offer him food or water, Dodson's escort ignored him. By day his hands were bound in green nylon cord; at night he was tied hand and foot to a bamboo rack. Passing through villages, people turned out in droves to gape and offer water, candy, cigarettes and bananas. Only in a recently bombed hamlet were the villagers hostile, pushing close in an angry, chanting crowd until the chief arrived to disperse them. Four times, English-speaking Vietnamese appeared. Each asked Dodson's name and told him not to be afraid: "The Vietnamese don't kill their prisoners."

Acupuncture. The V.C. took Dodson to a mountain compound called "V.C. Tower." In it were 15 South Vietnamese army prisoners. Soon Dodson was joined by another Danang marine: Corporal Walter Eckes, 20, of New York City. Eckes had been captured four days after Dodson by three Viet Cong dressed in government uniforms as he waited beside a main highway. The two marines were the only English-speaking residents in the lightly guarded camp, save for a planted Vietnamese Communist pretending to be a captured Special Forces soldier.

As a way station toward tougher camps, V.C. Tower proved as palatable as an enemy prison can reasonably be expected to be. Dodson and Eckes ate their meals (rice laced with snails, caterpillars or snake meat) with the camp director and their guards, played cards and sometimes sang (a favorite tune: The Animals' We Gotta Get out of This Place). Attempts were made to interrogate them, but when they refused to answer, the V.C. did not press them further. A specialist in acupuncture stuck pins in their scalps by way of a medical examination, and a political cadre dropped in to try to work on Dodson, a Negro, by citing racial injustice in the U.S. The effect was to make Dodson burn, baby, burn. They also were compelled to buy candy, cookies and papaya at exorbitant prices to supplement their diets. "It was the most expensive prison camp in the world," cracks Dodson who spent $76 in his six weeks there.

The Big Yell. The Americans were told they would be taken to another camp and eventually be sent to Cambodia for repatriation and release. Fearing that they were destined for North Viet Nam when they were moved out, they waited for a chance to escape. It came one suppertime as their three guards, carbines carelessly stacked against a tree, were digging into their rice bowls. Dodson yelled and leaped for the guns, came up with one while the startled Reds vanished into the bush. "I think the yell scared the V.C. more than the weapon," recalls an admiring Eckes.

Free at last, Dodson and Eckes began a four-day trek back to Danang. Once the enemy passed within three feet of them while they crouched in 6-ft.-tall elephant grass; another time a herd of buffalo chased them. For sustenance, they had the remains of a $16 bag of candy they had bought. Finally they spotted a U.S. C-130 Hercules transport landing behind a ridge and arrived at a South Vietnamese army compound at An Hoa, 20 miles south of Danang--unshaven and tangle-haired, each 30 lbs. lighter, their feet blistered. Grunted a sergeant as they staggered up to the camp perimeter: "You're lucky. My sentry almost shot you."

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