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Acknowledgements
Iman Maleki
Iman Maleki was born in 1976, in
Tehran. Fascinated
by the art of painting since he
was a child, at the age of
fifteen
Iman started to learn painting
under the mastery of his first
and only teacher—Morteza
Katouzian—who
is the greatest realist painter
of Iran. Meanwhile, Mr. Maleki began to
paint professionally. I know
that Iman will be very happy if
you visit his website:
http://imanmaleki.com/index.htm
Iman kindly gave
me permission to use three of
his images and for this I am
most grateful.
• The Shining Lotus
Orphanage does not exist.
However,
Alessandro Vannucci
has taken many beautiful
pictures at the Osborne House,
which is a real orphanage,
located in Cambodia. As you read
further and discover
Alessandro’s adorable photos,
you are always invited to visit
the
Cambodian Orphan Fund.
So a big thank you is extended
to Alessandro.
• Another orphanage that I
want to mention is,
The Center
for Children’s Happiness.
I met Mr. Charles Pieters over
at Flickr who was willing to
share some
of his pictures of Cambodia, Laos
and this orphanage. Thank
you very much.
•
Ancient Wisdom is a
website out of England that has
given me permission to use one
of their images. They say
that a picture is worth a
thousand words and scrolling
through Ancient Wisdom
certainly brings meaning to this
saying.
• I want
to again say
thank you to all the
talented photographers over at
Flickr
who have given me permission to use
their photos. However,
use of their
imagery is not an endorsement of
my book.
• PBase
is another Internet community where I
was introduced to
Nick De Marco
and his great photographs. So a
big thanks to Nick for letting
me use his photos.
•
Gopak d. d. who lives in
Chili and Mathura Lilaprija
who lives in Vilnius, Lithuania
are two natural born
photographers who have given me
complete access to their photos
of India. Their candid
shots of Vrindavan, India
are the best I have ever seen.
•
Christopher Cotton
has a very impressive collection
of photographs stored over on
Picasa Web Albums.
Spending time at his Cambodia
gallery (or any of his
galleries) would be a worthwhile
use of anybody’s time. I owe
Mr. Cotton a huge, thank you.
He knows why. Thank you,
again!
•
Wikipedia
has been a valuable source for
finding Public Domain imagery.
Thank you.
• I am also
indebted to
Bell’s Aviation Museum
for allowing me to use one of
their photos. Thank you!
• The
Bhaktivedanta Book Trust
(BBT)
deserves much praise for
preserving the art and wisdom of
ancient India, as well as
actively encouraging many new
projects to unlock her great
past.
• I want to thank
my dear friend, Kris
Carlson who gave me some ideas
on how this difficult story
could be told. Without his
input I doubt that I would have
written any of this.
• Having most recently
completed Part 3, there are a
few more photographers that I
want to thank for letting me use
their outstanding pictures of
the holy city and surrounding
areas of Vrindavan.
They are Sudevi dasa,
Aishwarya Kumar Varshney,
Laksman Poddar, Suryakant Ajay, Vijay Radhika,
and my old friend, Chaturatma
dasa.
• I am very
excited to thank both
Tulasi-Tosika d.d.
and
Purusottam das
who have put together a
fabulous website with hundreds
of pictures of Holy India.
You can visit them on
Facebook or go directly to
www.kadamba.net.
Besides their photo galleries, Tulas-Tosika and Purusottam das
have many videos that you can
watch. Again, thank you
for letting me use some of your
images.
• I
want to thank Haridasa Thakura
dasa for allowing me to use a
few of his beautiful images of
Vrindavan.
• I also want to acknowledge
the many Christian Saints who
have given my life so much
inspiration. There are simply
too many to mention but there is
one, in particular, who I owe
everything too. I cannot tell
you her name but because of her
deep and simple devotion to
Christ; with love and
forgiveness beyond
comprehension, she blessed me
when I needed it the most.
Hopefully this little book will
please her.
• On a personal note, I want
to acknowledge the following:
My sister, Ava Harrison; Charles
Berner; my lovely wife, Kay; The
Pilgrim; Joan Grant and her
book, Winged Pharaoh.
I also want to say thank you to
Alexander Kon Berner who put on
his editors hat and gave me some
good advice. And of course
my deepest appreciation to
Shrila Prabhupada and the
worldwide Vaishnava society of
saints, sadhus, and scholars,
led by my hero, Shri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu.
Ronald E. Boutelle
January 21, 2011
|
|
This novel remembers
my friend, Carl Merchant
who died in Vietnam. He was from
Corinth, New York
[2nd from right]. |
|
This book is completely free for
your reading enjoyment.
Throughout the book
the author has interjected as
many historical facts as
possible to make his book
something more than total
fantasy. |
|
F.Y.I.
Fact:
In total, 30 B-52s were lost during the Vietnam War, including 10
B-52s that were shot down over
North Vietnam, with five others being
damaged and crashing in Laos and Thailand.
Fact:
The end of the
Vietnam War occurred with such speed
that some of
America’s
finest soldiers were simply left behind
to fend for themselves.
Fact:
In one of the most venerated Scriptures in the world, an Ocean of
Milk is described. 2000 miles
from where this story originates, the
largest temple complex in the world was dedicated to this famous
ocean.
Fact:
You can read every word of Abandoned without paying a dime.
My story is a religious thriller. The book opens in a jungle with a
group of soldiers and a metal detector trying to make sense out of
a tragic event that happened during the Vietnam War. What they
discover sets the stage for an even greater mystery.
Comments Welcome
ronaldboutelle@yahoo.com
|
All
photography is copyrighted
by the owners
Part One
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"Sunday morning I sat down to read a couple
of pages
and couldn't put it down until I
had finished it."
Avis
Christoff |
The Drama Begins
Abandoned
by Ronald E. Boutelle
Chapter
1: The Search
High from their tree-top lookouts the monkeys were
the first to notice the noise. The babies clung even
closer to their mothers—the older males moved
nervously as they peered through the jungle canopy.
Down below, the flutter of startled birds could be
heard and on the ground the first man could be
seen—at first just an odd movement through a patch
of morning fog—swinging his machete—quickly moving
forward. Behind him, the next man and the next one
following him, and even the next one, all
had that unmistakable look of North Vietnamese
soldiers. Their AK-47s and uniforms made no attempt
to hide their presence. Altogether the column of men
making their way through the jungle numbered close
to twenty. Five of them were Americans—more than one
of them panting—trying to keep pace with the
swinging machete.
As for retired army officer Jimmy Sutton, this image
of the future would have been unthinkable years
ago—totally unthinkable. But there were also the
unmistakable connections between the past and the
present that struck Sutton like a sledgehammer.
First: the jungle. Near Laos. Near North Vietnam.
He’d been here before. His right shoulder still
ached at times from the bullet that had hit him. Probably, he thought,
shot by that soldier’s
father, who was just a few yards ahead of him.
Wouldn’t that be one hell of an irony?
You would think that after so much time his arm
would have completely healed. But the bullet had hit
the bone. No wonder it still ached. Especially in
the damp. Especially in a damp jungle. More haunting
memories. Soon he would be struggling against other
familiar foes—the relentless attack from millions of
insects. Their only purpose in life seemed to be
taking part in a gigantic, never-ending feast. These
men were now the main course.
Altogether the soldiers made an intriguing sight.
Were they going to war? Most of the men were heavily
armed.
No, this story takes place back in the 90s—America
and North Vietnam have been at peace for many years.
Still, they needed the guards. After all, you never
know what surprises a jungle has in store for you.
No, this was a kinder and gentler group of men
making their way toward the mountain. Instead of
sworn enemies, these men were officially cooperating
with one another. Even so, they were still doing
what soldiers do—searching for their dead.
POWs—MIAs—abbreviations that had quickly turned into
words, almost too cute to describe Sutton’s grim
task. For a number of years, North Vietnam has been
assisting the United States in locating the
thousands of U.S. servicemen who had been swallowed
by this vast and rugged county, never to be seen again. Of
course, Uncle Sam knows they’re out
there—somewhere—but exactly where?
|
The Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command (JPAC)
is a task force within the United
States Department of Defense whose
mission is to account for United States
military personnel who are listed as
Prisoners Of War (POW) or Missing In
Action (MIA) from all past wars and
conflicts.
|
So this explains the reason for the column
of men slowly making their way
forward—frightening the monkeys. However, with
some luck they would find it. But it would take
a lot of luck—even if what they were looking for
was almost as big as a football field. That’s
just about the size of a B-52.
|
The Boeing B-52 Stratofortress
photo by: Adrian Pingstone |
For many good reasons America was looking
for its dead, but for Jimmy Sutton his
mission was even more painful. Not just
because he had fought here—but for other
reasons. More secret reasons. Interrupted in
thought by the sound of the men up ahead he
would have to come to grips with his
feelings later. Now a swift stream brought
the man with the machete to a standstill.
All twenty men stood watching,
wondering how they would get to the other
side. Lt. Ngo assured everyone that they
would find a way.
Sutton motioned for his interpreter. “Tell
the Lieutenant that we’re going to take
fifteen while he sends the scouts out for a
look—thanks.”
“Hey Scott, let’s have a smoke.” Scott had
been poured out of the same mold as
Sutton—both retired military—both the same
age—both professionals.
But only Sutton carried the dirty little
secret—or, so he thought. He had been
carefully hiding it since 1973. He looked at
Scott removing his pack and felt the shame.
“Good idea Major.” Soon the other Americans
were pulling out their cigarettes, except
for the kid. Blake was selected as part of
the team because back in the States he was
considered one of the best mountain climbers
alive. And you’ve got to be young to climb
mountains.
|
Blake On Kettle Mountain
photo by:
Burtonpe
|
Blake had learned the art after the war—after his
dad’s F-4 Phantom had been hit over the North. His
Navy jet never quite made it back to its
carrier. The men felt bad that they weren’t
out there looking for him, but of course
they couldn’t. A tremendous splash in
Blake’s mind was all that was left to
remember his father’s last moments.
Regardless of their difference in age, the
rest of the American team felt good having
Blake along. Besides the fact that they
would need him on the mountain, he reminded
the men of their own youth—of their own
hopes and dreams that had, so long ago, been
put to the greatest test of hide-and-seek
that any teenager could ever play—jungle
warfare. That’s right, they had been so
awfully young—not even twenty years old.
“Hey Blake, why don’t you just climb that
tree with your rope and we’ll all swing
across the stream like Tarzan?” Laughing at
the thought, Blake said that he might have
to if the scouts couldn’t find a way to
cross it.
“Major Sutton,” Blake said, “we’re really
getting into some rugged terrain. What do
you think it will be like up ahead?”
Pulling some photos from his pack, Sutton
reached over and handed them to Blake.
“Yeah, you’re right about it getting tough. Take a look at that second photo. That
was taken by one of our teams three year
ago.”
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 |
“Along
the base of that mountain is where
we’re
headed.” Sutton rolled his
cigar between his fingers.
“The Air Force
thinks we might find their B-52
over there. But it’s really just a
guessing game. Before we came over
here I got a briefing from General
Samm but even he admitted that their
intelligence on this bomber is
almost non-existent. It seems that
when the missile hit it, all of its
communications equipment was knocked
out and from the height it was
flying, by the time it finally hit
the ground it could have hurtled
hundreds of miles in just about any
direction.”
Trying to find a comfortable spot on
the ground, Major Sutton continued.
“The only reason we’re going to look
there is because of some sketchy
report they just picked up from a
villager in Cambodia who was told by
his elderly mother of a huge American plane.
Supposedly his father had heard it
headed in that direction when he was
just a boy, digging tunnels for the
Vietcong. He said he heard it
crash. I guess they feel the story
is reliable enough for us to check
it out. All I know is that this is
one of the most remote areas in all
of Southeast Asia.”
“Looking at these photographs, Major
Sutton, and looking at what’s
actually all around us, I’m really
surprised at how out of sync they
are.”
“Welcome to Vietnam, kid.” Pete
laughed out loud.
Pete was the jokester of the bunch.
Even the Marine Corps couldn’t beat
that out of him. He was the fourth
member of the team. He carried the
electronics.
They were all laughing now. Even the
North Vietnamese soldiers began to
laugh, although they had no idea
what the Americans were talking
about.
“I’ll tell you what, Blake,” Pete
said, “Once, after the war, when I
was in Central America looking for
traces of a lost Mayan city rumored
to be in the jungle—we were given
some aerial photographs to follow
and I never got so damn lost in my
entire life. They had to send out
the Honduran Army to find us!”
Again all the men were laughing when
one of the scouts returned. Lt. Ngo
walked over to Sutton. The
interpreter said they had found a
fallen tree that could be used to
cross the stream. This was good news
and within thirty minutes the column
of men once again began making its
way toward the mountain.
Two more arduous days and mosquito
infested nights passed before
another morning greeted the tired
men—a new day—a new adventure that
promised to reveal what each had
come such a long way to find. The
greatest relief was that after
breakfast the tents could be left
pitched since Sutton had decided to
establish their present location as
their base camp. With the mountain
firmly planted beside them, from
there the men could break out into
teams.
View from the American
Base Camp
photo by:
tacosdeojos
For the next several days everyone would
systematically search for any signs
of the missing bomber. At least,
this was the plan. Blake and two of
the younger soldiers would explore
the mountain, itself. There was a
lot of territory to cover.
Tracy was the fifth and final member
of the American search party. He had
spent two tours in Vietnam with the
Army’s elite SOG unit that operated
out of Kontum.
At the end of his
second tour his
best friend,
SFC Jerry (Mad Dog) Shriver
was killed during a fierce battle. That was in April of
1969. This legend of a man had
survived an unheard of 40 missions,
deep behind enemy lines.
Jerry Michael Shriver
The pencil pushers at
Shining Brass
all knew that the men who made up
their SOG units seldom survived
beyond 20 missions. Anyhow, Tracy
had his reasons for coming back to
Vietnam. But revenge wasn’t one of
them. When Mad Dog disappeared during
the battle,
his body was never recovered and some of the men thought he
might have been captured. Add to the
facts that Mad Dog had saved Tracy’s
life more than once—yes, he had his
reasons.
Sutton, Scott, Pete and Tracy—each
had lost friends in Vietnam and you
couldn’t help but respect them for
what they were doing. They didn’t
have to volunteer for any of this.
No—they wanted to. They desperately
wanted to. A good soldier never
leaves his fallen comrades behind
and with a chance to correct the
past they were eager for this new
day. It wasn’t until several days
later, however, that they got lucky.
And it doesn’t really matter who
spotted the massive object first
because Tracy and Pete were both
there when it was found. Actually,
it was one of the North Vietnamese
soldiers who first saw the thing,
quickly yelling for the two
Americans to come look. Hacking
their way through the dense
undergrowth to a small clearing,
they stood looking at it—a moment in
time they would never forget for as
long as they lived.
Since they had agreed to contact the
entire team before investigating any
major artifacts, using his portable
radio to reach Sutton and the
others, Pete told them what they had
found. The Vietnamese came, too.
Within an hour everyone stood in
complete silence looking at the
unbelievable sight resting on the
jungle floor.
“What do you think Major—is it the
B-52?”
|
 |
Official B-52
Crash Site
wikipedia
“It sure looks like it
Blake. Now that
everyone’s here, let’s
take a closer look.”
The jungle had covered
parts of the downed
bomber while other parts
of the aircraft were
clearly visible. “My
God, just look at that
thing—sitting here
all these years.”
Professional soldiers
that they were, the
North Vietnamese spread
out to secure the
perimeter, leaving the
Americans to honor their
dead. Lt. Ngo remained
with the interpreter at
a respectable distance,
slowly smoking a
cigarette as he watched
the drama unfold before
him.
The enormous jet was in
surprisingly good shape—at least what was left
of it. The wings and
tail section were
missing but other than
that, Sutton knew that
he had found his
bomber. Aircraft parts
were everywhere.
Tracy was the first to
inch his way into the
small opening, careful
not to cut himself on
any of the jagged metal
that guarded the
entrance. Then it was
the Major who slowly
disappeared. Scott was
next, followed by Pete.
Suddenly Sutton stopped
dead in his tracks,
drawing his .357 from
its holster—snake.
Outside, Blake could see
a slithering object off
to his right, obviously
disturbed by the
approaching men.
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