Nuoc — water—was the first word some of the more than a hundred Caucasian POWs learned. The water was tepid and tasted metallic, but at least it was liquid, and the POWs, on what they were by now grimly calling “Upshut’s Island,” drank it gratefully yet resentfully, realizing as they did so that their dependence on him meant that Upshut’s power over them had been tightened another notch. Even Murphy, the outspoken and garrulous Australian, was wary of the PLA guards’ displeasure, though they were now a good fifty yards away, and was wondering how he and his fellow prisoners could survive on the meager rations being handed out. Despite the ample supply of fish that was the result of the explosions in the coral reef, the Chinese were giving the prisoners only enough to sustain them, and not bothering to cook the fish, which they simply tossed among the POWs as if amid a pack of dogs.
“Bastards,” Murphy said, but quietly enough that the guards couldn’t hear him. “Hope none of these are bloody stonefish.” He waited for a response but none of the other nineteen prisoners in his group said anything, some frantically trying to figure out how best to deal with raw fish with your bare hands. “Stonefish’ll kill you in less than five minutes.” Only Shirley Fortescue balked at what lay in front of her. “Don’t worry,” Murphy said. “None of these are stonefish.”
“Why bring it up, then?” she said tersely. “You enjoy frightening people?”
“Don’t get your knickers in a knot, Shirl. Just somethin’ to say, y’know.”
“And I’ve told you before my name’s Shirley, not Shirl.”
“Piss on you, lady.”
“Hey, Mike,” Danny Mellin interjected. “Ease up.”
“No problem, Dan, just trying to pass the time.”
“Well, don’t,” Shirley said. “It’s going to be tough enough as it is. We don’t need your warped sense of humor on top of it.”
“Listen up, you two,” Danny cut in. “We’ve got trouble enough without you two starting another war.” Mike Murphy was using a sharp-edged shell to scale the rockfish.
“War’s already started,” Murphy answered petulantly.
“Yeah,” Danny said, “but we’re in the middle of nowhere—”
“We’re in the Paracels,” Shirley cut in. “Far as I can tell, somewhere near Pottle or Woody islands.”
“Whoopee,” Murphy said.
“Mike,” Danny said, “put a lid on it. What I was saying was that we have to start figuring a few things out because when they’re done building this airstrip, what are they going to do with us?”
“What makes you so sure it’s an airstrip?” Murphy asked, tearing hungrily at a piece of fish.
“Well,” Danny said, “it’s the wrong shape for a baseball diamond.”
Shirley Fortescue laughed.
“Yeah, well,” Murphy said, feeling foolish in light of Mellin’s repartee. “Why in hell would the Chinese be blowing up a reef and rolling it flat when there’s already an airstrip on Woody Island?”
“Because,” Shirley answered in as civil a tone as she could manage with the Australian, “Woody Island’s airstrip was wrecked by the Vietnamese in the first few days of the war. It was blown up and the island occupied by Vinh’s marines within a few hours of Chical 3 getting hit.”
“The rig you were on?” Danny said.
“Yes. We got the news on the distress channel from a few foreign rigs drilling offshore.”
“So now Upshut Island is to replace Woody Island,” Danny said.
“Right.”
“Ah, rats!” Murphy said, his tone trying for a jauntiness that he knew the others were either too thirsty or too hungry to share. “Your lot,” he told Danny. “Seventh Fleet won’t let ‘em build an airstrip here — middle of bloody nowhere or Paracels — whatever. Yanks’ll bomb the crap out of it.”
Neither Shirley Fortescue nor Danny Mellin said anything for a few moments. The Australian was indisputably brave, as his helping Danny earlier in their capture had demonstrated, and he was clearly intelligent enough to have been working on one of the South China Sea rigs before the war had started, yet he was surprisingly naive politically, as evident from his remarks about the Seventh Fleet bombing Upshut Island.
“Haven’t you noticed, Mr. Murphy,” Shirley began, “how many Americans, British, and Australians have been brought to this island?”
“Yeah, Miss Fortescue, I have. So?”
“You don’t see any reason for that — the fact that there must be over a hundred of us here?”
“All right, so they’re using us as bloody coolies,” Murphy retorted. “Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”
“Mike,” Danny said calmly, “they’re using us as bloody hostages.” He paused. “As well as coolies. The President isn’t going to order the Seventh Fleet or any other fleet to bomb the ‘crap’ out of this speck in the ocean. Not with so many American and British and—” Murphy looked thunderstruck, so Danny tried to lighten it up. “They won’t even bomb Aussies!”
Murphy was still silent.
“Lookit,” Danny continued, “even when we bombed the crap out of Hanoi, our guys never went near the Hanoi Hilton.” Shirley Fortescue looked nonplussed. “Hanoi Hilton,” Danny explained to her, “was the POW jail in Hanoi. During ‘Nam.”
“Oh…”
“Bloody hell!” Murphy pronounced. “Then how the dick are we gonna get off this bloody island? I mean, I thought we’d at least be traded or something.”
“What do you suggest meanwhile?” Shirley asked. “We swim for it?”
“Very bloody funny.”
“Actually,” she riposted, “it isn’t bloody funny at all.”
“Hoy! Hoy!” It was one of Upshut’s guards jabbing his Kalashnikov at the prisoners, indicating that they should get up and back to work hauling great loads of coral, then straining on the ropes of the cement rollers to flatten it.