Free Casca 11: The Legionnaire by Barry Sadler

could sense a dimming of light. Soon it would be dark. He wondered if they were going to march all night or make a stop someplace and wait for dawn. He wished for the latter. Then they might release his hands in order for him to eat if they planned on feeding him.
    The rope tugged him along. Several times he fell, stumbling over roots or vines lying along the trail that was leading them ever deeper into the strongholds of the Viet Minh. When this happened he was kicked, cursed at, and jerked back to his feet by his handlers. He was beginning to really develop a sincere dislike for those on the other end of his leash. He tried to keep a count of his steps for no other reason than it was something to keep his mind busy. But it did no good; he fell too many times and lost his count with each fall.
    Thich called a halt to their day's travel after a march of four hours. They had reached a location where supplies were cached and a strong guard was kept on permanent duty. Langer was pushed to his knees and then shoved forward to fall several feet, again on his sore face. He was jerked roughly back to his knees as his blindfold was ripped off. The fall had been the Viets' way of getting him down the small entrance to one of their tunnel systems. Thich took the time to take another look at his prisoner. Odd, he thought. He could have sworn the man's lip had a deep cut in it. Now there was only the thin pale line of an old injury there. Curious, but he had no time for such idle speculations.
    As he was hauled down the subterranean passageways, Langer was amazed at how intricate the Viets' tunnel networks were. More than once on other operations he had come across them. Some were like this one, designed to house perhaps fifty or sixty men and store supplies. Others had hospitals, with facilities for several hundred wounded. Some even had factories where they made munitions and quarters where they could house a couple of battalions comfortably.
    Along the walls were sacks of rice, medicines, most of it French or Chinese, and some ammunition, nearly all of it being of Russian or Chinese manufacture. That meant the Viets were getting more standardized in their weaponry and relying less on captured or homemade stocks.
    Ducking his head as he passed under supporting beams, he tried to take in everything, not knowing what might be useful to him in the future. The tunnels were not quite high enough for him to walk erect and were lit by a series of kerosene lanterns. He was placed, still handcuffed, into a small cubbyhole with a door made of tin sheeting. This was padlocked from the outside. His captors were relieved of watching him by the guard force at the tunnel site. These were not part time guerrillas, but full time regular soldiers in matching khaki uniforms and carrying SKS rifles from the Soviet Union. They were no amateurs, but they were typical lean, thin faced, with stringy muscles concealing strength that most Europeans would not have believed them capable of. Langer knew that in the field the Viets would easily outmarch the Europeans for the first couple of days. On the third day the Europeans would be even with them, and on the fourth they would be ahead. This was because of their diet. If the Viets had been raised on a western diet he doubted if anyone could have kept up with them or endure more hardships. He had to admire them, even if they were the enemy.
    Three days passed without anyone coming for him or the cuffs being removed. Food was brought once a day as was water. He had to eat and drink as best he could without use of his hands. But Thich finally sent for him. Guards led him through a series of passageways to a larger room in the caves, obviously used as their headquarters. Field telephones were in evidence as well as three secretaries busily pounding out correspondence on machines that had been built shortly after World War One. Thich was just setting down the telephone as Langer was pushed into his presence.
    Thich