Abandoned

Abandoned (Part One - Chapter 5)

CHAPTER 5: Laos, 1973 ......"Being a Vietnam veteran myself, and having been a helicopter (UH-1D) crew chief while there, this story "refreshes" many memories when my "crew" and I shuttled soldiers into various LZs (landing zones) that were sometimes "HOT" (infested with enemy combatants). We were under heavy fire in the Hue area of South Vietnam (3 miles south of the DMZ), but sometimes under cover of darkness, without lights, flying low along the treetops in an erratic flight-path (to avoid detection), we navigated to a destination across the border into Cambodia, Laos or North Vietnam. Our mission was to "insert" a LRRP unit (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol) just like the war hero that this story is about. We (my fellow helicopter crews) often later deliberated on, whatever had happened to that LRRP team that we had dropped off a week ago? Because those types of missions were classified top secret, we never knew the results of their retrieval or capture. Your skill at story-telling is very expert. As you have seen, even for one who was there, the circumstances which stitched this work of fiction into a very believable and convincing reality were well-placed in a timeline that perfectly fit the back drop of real-current events of that time. You wove it into a very exciting journey from darkness to light! Despite my having read the introductory portion at the start of your story, the emotion of the developments of the story were so intriguing that my mind was drawn into the experience of the adventure itself. That's a tribute to your expertise; congratulations! Again, I cannot thank you enough for helping me to rectify my personal Vietnam experience through the auspices of your "Abandoned" story-line." (Louis S. Bernier, Jr.)

Suryavarman removed the lid from the brass pot, careful not to let the escaping steam burn his finger. Perfect—the saffron color and rich aroma was exactly what he wanted. Because Suryavarman was well into his seventies, he could have easily had one of the younger men cook the rice. Any one of them would have been honored to help their spiritual master, but that never even crossed his mind because cooking rice for the Lord was something that Surya looked forward to each and every morning. It was an especially nice morning. The light rain from the previous day had vanished. Greens were vivid in varying hues with patches of browns and yellows. Splashes of sun filtered down through the jungle canopy, playing hide-and-seek with a host of intricate shadows. The most beautiful times of day—early morning and evening—filtered the sun's overwhelming grandeur.

Surya felt at peace. His fingers slowly rocked against his wooden beads.

The jungle permeated with the sound of birds. Incense from the morning offering floated through the air. The smell was wonderful. A bell was ringing. A piece of fruit was being offered to a small Deity of Lord Vishnu. If you were close enough, Surya's ancient prayers could be heard: "Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare • Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare."   In less than an hour one of the more pleasant weekly rituals would begin.

The assembled men with their empty water jugs were not in any rush. They prayed as they walked, thanking God for all they had. Above them, in the trees, the monkeys were silent as the monks made their way to the spring. Sometimes the men would pause. They realized that the beauty around them was but a spark of God's splendor. Wherever Surya looked he saw God's handiwork at play.

Rama was the youngest member of this tribe of reclusive monks. Although he was born in Cambodia, his ancestors were from India and was named after the great Indian King, Lord Ramachandra. His mother had died a few months after his third birthday.

On this particular day Rama had not gone with the other monks for water. Instead, he was needed in the monastery's small infirmary. Nitai had been bitten by a poisonous snake and was near death. The stone walls of the cave cooled the area where his semi-conscious friend was laboring to breathe. Rama adjusted a small pillow under his neck. He felt his forehead. Sensing the fever, Rama used a wet rag to cool his body. This seemed to help and Nitai drifted to sleep.