Bones of the Dragon

by Marjorie Doughty

Imagine two surgeons, a man and woman, who want to be the best and highest paid in the world. They go to Vietnam, get divorced, and she is captured by the North Vietnamese and made a "prisoner" in a reeducation camp. During this time, she learns the true value of life, after being caught in a bombing raid, two attempted rapes, loss of her best friend, and more. It is a story that is strictly imaginative but laced with truths of the good and bad of humanity.

ISBN 978-1-59431-817-7 Vietnam / Women / Medical

Cover Art by Shelley Rodgerson Also available in RTF and HTML formats



Chapter 1

“Why am I a prisoner in this North Vietnamese reeducation camp, God.” Jean asked. There was no answer, only the dismal, bleak silence remained. With a stifled sob, she put her body into the least uncomfortable position she could find on the rattan cot, only dimly aware of the raw cement walls and floor of the tiny cell that threatened to close in on her. She tried not to think about the stench from the bucket she used for a toilet. Fatigue took over and as she half-slept, distorted images tumbled haphazardly through her mind.

“No.” Her spoken denial forced her eyes open, out of the nightmare with its hurting, stifling memories. Her neck ached from the frantic movement of twisting her head from side to side. Muscles cramped with tension, Jean forced her body up from the cot. Her scattered thoughts refused to come together. Exhaustion again took over, and she eased back down on the cot, closed her eyes against the alien darkness that lay like a murky stinking blanket, suffocating.

Why was she, an American surgeon, forced to operate on the North Vietnamese wounded? There before her was Nuncey, her only female American nurse, ready to assist but as Jean watched, Nuncey’ body in its military uniform was torn slowly into shreds, blood oozed, pieces of her body were flung through the air while heavy drops of bright red stained the whiteness that surrounded her. In semi-consciousness, Jean moaned and twisted on the cot.

Colonel Yim, his small body neat and trim in its ugly green North Vietnamese uniform, his light brown-skinned face sorrowful, loomed above her, smiled gently, and said:

“Even though I am with the North Vietnamese Army, I have saved you from being raped, don’t forget. Now I must go to be killed for my country.”

Yim faded and was replaced by Frank, tall and thin in his white surgeon’s coat.

“I am divorcing you because you are cold, cold, cold.” Jean shivered in her sleep.

Now it was no longer Frank, it was Stan wearing his Colonel’s uniform. “You thought I was leaving my wife for you, but all I wanted was a good piece of ass.”

A small sob forced its way out of Jean’s tight throat and a tear defied sleep as it slipped down her cheek.

Mitch sat on the cot beside her, his irregular features softened and his brown eyes filled with love.

“Baby, I’d marry you in a minute if I were that kind of a guy.”

“No,” Jean whispered out loud, “you can’t do that. I am a surgeon but I’m also a whore.” Again she pulled herself out of the nightmare and tried to force her mind to stay awake, but fatigue took over and she dozed, only to again see Colonel Yim who held out his hand.

“We are all victims of the war, Bac Si. Be brave.”

The nightmare finally retreated and Jean slept until the noise of the approaching guards brought her back to bleak reality.

Twenty-seven years old today and she felt ancient, wearied with overwork, lack of adequate food and sleep. What did the fates have against her? Memories of other birthdays crept into her mind as she stood up, flexed her stiff arms and legs into reluctant life; friends, gifts, laughter, all part of a sane well-ordered movement of life in the past that gave no glimpse into this twisted, dark tunnel in which she was trapped with no exit. Where had the so-called American way of Middle West living taken a wrong turn? Was it when she left the quiet, sheltered life she shared with Aunt Julie to marry Frank? She had expected a workable marriage as well as a successful partnership, two of them headed for the unlimited success waiting for prominent surgeons.

“I don’t understand,” she spoke into the murk that was beginning to lighten with a lone ray of hot sun coming through the small high outside window just under the roof of the cell. It foretold the almost unbearable heat of about 102 degrees and the steaming, wilting humidity of the coming day.

She was a prisoner of war, although the North Vietnamese military men in charge of the re-education camp assured her she was a captive surgeon, not a prisoner. They explained it was necessary to keep her, to use her medical skills because they were short of surgeons. These people twisted words. If she wasn’t a prisoner why was she put into this miserable cell each night and the door locked behind her? There was never enough food or medicine. Amoebic dysentery brought on by unclean food and polluted water was now a way of life, monotonous, demanding, draining the body of its vital fluids. With her body honed down to skin stretched over bones, there was little resistance left.

When first captured by the North Vietnamese a few months back before she was brought to this camp, there had been a degree of freedom for her during that time. Together with her captor, Colonel Yim, also her protector and mentor, she traveled the countryside. It was true they had eaten whatever could be found, used medicines stolen from the Americans or bought on the black market, caught bits and pieces of sleep wherever possible, often ran from attacks either on the ground or from the air, and sought safety in tunnels or village houses or huts, faced mangled corpses of military and civilians daily, but still she could move about. She had no idea what freedom meant until she was brought here. Now she had no place to go except within the confines of this camp or the privacy of her mind.

She headed for the bucket in the corner to relieve her aching bladder. Then she splashed cold water from the earthen jar and washed her face and hands without soap. She scrubbed her teeth with her fingers and cleaned them with a small sliver of wood she had pulled from the rough frame of her cot and sterilized in the infirmary. She combed her hair by running her fingers through the short hairdo. Ready to face Colonel Nuygen Trang, Jean wondered what the camp commander would demand of her this day, November 11, the 101st day of her captivity.