| The West Wall It's a cold, grey day today. But who am I kidding? They're all cold and grey in their own way. I'm leaning against the concrete walls of the Hilton, under an overhang, watching the rain and smoking a precious cigarette. They don't give you many smokes here in the Hilton. I watch the bombers pass overhead on their way back to the carriers. I remember when I was one of them, back before they captured me. I was up there. I was the radioman. I would look out the windows of the B52 and I would see all these squalid little huts. Nothing worth bombing, but by all means if some little Asian nation wants to go Red, it is our duty as true Americans to stop them. "Hey, you have another?" a fellow inmate asks, referring to my cigarette. I shake my head and hand the rest to him. I look at my watch. Almost 10:00 AM. Time for Hanoi Jane to scold us. "So what do you think we're gonna hear today?" I ask the man who's smoking the cigarette. "How our imperialistic policies are failing to enslave the People? How our own people hate us?" "I really don't believe all that stuff about Kent State," the man informed me. "The Commies'll tell you anything. Next thing you know they'll be saying the sky's purple." "I really get sick of this weather," I tell him. "It's always either too wet or too hot. I wish I was back in Portland." "Which one?" he asked. "Maine or Oregon? 'Cuz I'm from NYC." "Oregon. So you're a city boy, eh-" "Good morning, inmates!" proclaimed Hanoi Jane, our personal English-language tormentor. I walk away and start drowning her out. It's not easy, the public address system is very loud. But I have a secret weapon: I can pray. I flood my spirit with the Holy Spirit and focus so hard on my God that no Red (or American, for that matter) can easily break my concentration. I wasn't always this way, though. It was five years ago, in March of '65 when I was captured after they shot down my bomber. I was thrown into the Hilton, and the guy that shared my west wall was a Christian. The way that we prisoners talk to each other is by knocking on the wall in code. For two months he witnessed to me in code. Having nothing else besides the Commies' newspaper to read, I took out my Bible and looked it over. Finally I was saved, and with little else to do I've been growing in the faith by leaps and bounds and witnessing with every action I can. Like take a few moments ago, when I gave that guy the rest of my smoke. I really wanted that, but probably so did he. The guy on the west wall told me that I was to witness everywhere I go, and if necessary, I was supposed to use words, too. So that was one little way of witnessing. I never actually saw him, nor him me. But God saw him, and He'll remember when we're dead. I myself have begun tapping out a witness to my neighbor on my east wall. So I'm worshipping and I feel something. Not spiritually, but physically. It takes a moment to realize this, but when I do I turn around. It's one of the guards. An Asian in a green uniform, with a little red star on his hat. But the weird thing about him is his glowing gold eyes. "You bettah risten to Jane, sowjah," he scolds. But I detect the slightest trace of a smile at his lips. He's standing right there, so I have no choice. "How can a nation that claims to be so driven by ideals, a nation that does so many wondrous things, a nation that has even planted its flag on the moon, continue in this bombing madness?" PLANTED ITS FLAG ON THE MOON!? The inmates shout with joy and high-five one another. I smile broadly, and point to the moon that's near the horizon. I look at the guard and shout excitedly. "We did it! We did it!" By the grace of God, we did it. I just wish that I could have been home with my wife to have watched it live. Who am I kidding? If I was home I would be going to hell. Better to live in the Hilton a Christian than America an unbeliever. I turn around and the guard is gone. But where he stood I see a feather. A large golden feather. I pick it up and twirl it around. As I examine it, I walk away. PREVIOUS NEXT |