Free Basher Five-Two by Scott O'Grady

she’d just come back from the town of Medjugorje, in the south of Bosnia, where many locals and visitors had sworn they’d seen the Virgin Mary. I had never believed in miracles, but I suddenly found myself praying to the Mother of Medjugorje. I began to feel an inner peace, a certainty that I wasn’t alone in the world. I felt that a lot of people were praying for me and my safe return. It was almost like a chorus of voices, and it renewed my courage.
    Late that night, I rose stiffly from my hiding place with slow, disconnected movements. My goal was not to disturb a single twig as I pushed to my feet. Once again, I checked off the items in my rucksack and made sure my radio was secure in my survival vest pocket. I plugged in the earpiece so that I could listen to the radio as I walked. In between my vest and my flight suit I stuffed my tarp,the netting, and the large portions of my EVC, until I looked as though I were several months pregnant. I carried my rucksack like a backpack. I stepped into the meadow and began traveling southeast, heading toward the hill I had indicated on my evasion chart.
    My day of rest in the woods had not been wasted. While I was still thirsty and hungry, I felt a new reserve of energy. Although there were more stars out than last night, making me more noticeable to any sleepless Serbs, I looked upon the night as an old and reliable friend. My legs pushed me up a hill, over its crest, and into an open field. I hesitated. The thought of being exposed as I marched across the field worried me. It made more sense to take extra time and walk along the borders of the field, where there were trees to conceal me. Then I remembered the motto of the Juvats, the Eightieth Fighter Squadron, with whom I had served in Korea.
Audentes fortuna juvat,
I told myself. Fortune favors the bold. I began walking across the open field.
    Maybe I suddenly had get-home-itis. The desire to get out of Bosnia
now
fought with the more cautious voice inside me, the one begging me to slow down and be careful. As I navigated across the field, my pace quickened along with my heart. After about fifteen minutes I came over a rise and stopped cold. A pair of steel power line towers, about a quarter mile apart, dominated the landscape like a couple of giants.
    I began to worry about being near a population center. Worse, it was less than an hour before daylight. Birds were already starting to sing. As I hurried ahead, the field narrowed into a broad path, which led up a slope to some dense foliage. With the rucksack bouncing on my back, I sped up my pace toward what looked like a secluded cove, bordered by a steep six-foot-high granite ledge. Still in darkness, I dropped into a maze of bushes and trees.
    Using the Guard channel, twice I called out on my radio. Even though I was now on higher ground, where the transmission should have been better, I got nowhere. Frustrated, I closed my eyes. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but I did. When I was awakened by the first light of dawn, it took me only seconds to realize I had made the same mistake as two nights ago. In my haste to hide and my inability to see clearly, I had chosen a less than desirable hole-up site. The trees and the undergrowth were too sparse. And the granite ledge behind me made a quick escape difficult.
    As the sky flooded with light, I dashed ten yards into a clump of high thistle bushes across the way. I didn’t care if the thistles scratched my face and hands; the important thing was that they were deep enough to cover me. I went through my slow-motion routine of laying down my tarp and covering myself with the camouflage netting, but not before spreading out my gear so that everything was within easy reach. I had a strict and specific place for eachpiece of my gear—penlight here, radio there, GPS receiver by my leg. I had come to think of setting up camp as building a nest. It was a step-by-step process, like that of a mother bird bringing in nest material