The Cage: An Englishman in Vietnam [Hardcover]

In the library of pungent, grittily written books on the Vietnam war, Tom "Bud" Abraham's The Cage is something different--something very different indeed. Bud Abraham was one of the very few Englishmen who served in Vietnam. In the late 60s he took part in some of the most carnage-filled battles of the war as an officer in the first Cavalry Division. His courage gained him a slew of medals, and he even obtained one of the most prestigious decorations awarded by the American army, the Silver Star.

This astonishing testimony takes us into the very heart of that nightmare conflict, and some passages are positively lacerating in their impact. Captured by the Viet Cong during the Tet offensive, Abraham endured torture during the relentless interrogations, and his bold escape into the treacherous jungle was a classic case of from frying pan to fire: his ordeal (naked, hungry, terrified) brought him (Abraham tells us) to the level of a beast.

Abraham's ability to convey his own extreme psychological state is astonishing, but not just in terms of the Vietnam war: the book is equally involving when Abraham takes us on to the events that nearly destroyed his life 30 years after the conflict, when he had returned to England. Not a book for the squeamish, certainly, but the final effect of this trenchant and distinguished memoir is genuinely inspiring: a testimony to the endurance of the human spirit. --Barry Forshaw

An Englishman's terrifying journey to the dark heart of the Vietnam War.

Tom "Bud" Abraham was one of the very few Englishman to serve in Vietnam. As an officer in the 1st Cavalry Division during 1967/8, he saw combat in some of the fiercest encounters of the War. His gallantry earned him a chestful of medals, including the Silver Star, one of the highest decorations awarded by the American Army. During the Tet Offensive, Tom was captured by the Vietcong. The suffering he endured during his interrogation and torture tested him to the limits. His daring escape into the surrounding jungle was the beginning of a new ordeal. His struggle to survive, naked and alone, would drag him down to the level of a primitive beast. After he returned to England from Vietnam, Tom made a new life. He married, became a father, and started a successful career. It seemed that he had forgotten the nightmare of the past. But more than 30 years later, a trivial encounter with the police began a catastrophic chain of events. He lost everything - his family, his home, his self-respect. It became all-too-obvious that the psychological and emotional wounds he received in Vietnam were still festering. In trying to rebuild his life, Tom had once more to confront those traumatic memories that he had buried so deep. If he were to have any chance of a future, he would have to relive the past. His terrifying journey is the story of this book.

Tom 'Bud' Abraham was one of the very few Englishmen to serve in Vietnam. As an officer in the 1st Cavalry Division during 1967/8, he saw combat in some of the fiercest encounters of the war. His gallantry earned him a chestful of medals, including the Silver Star, one of the highest decorations awarded by the American Army.

During the Tet Offensive, Tom was captured by the Vietcong. The suffering he endured during his interrogation and torture tested him to the limits, and yet his daring escape into the surrounding jungle was the beginning of a new ordeal. His struggle to survive, naked and alone, would drag him down to the level of a primitive beast.

After he returned to England from Vietnam, Tom made a new life. He married, became a father, and started a successful career in business. It seemed that he had forgotten the nightmare of the past. But more than thirty years later, a trivial encounter with the police began a catastrophic chain of events. He lost everything - his family, his home, his self-respect. It became all too obvious that the psychological and emotional wounds he received in Vietnam were still festering.

In trying to rebuild his life, Tom had once more to confront those traumatic memories that he had buried so deep. If he were to have any chance of a future, he would have to relive the past. His terrifying yet inspiring journey is the story of this book.

Tom Abraham was born in Lancashire, and emigrated to America at the age of nineteen. From 1966 until 1969 he served in the American Army, including a tour of duty to Vietnam. Afterwards he returned to England, where he made a successful career in the textile industry. After suffering a breakdown in 1999/2000, he stopped working, and he now lives quietly in Walton-on-Thames.

I'm looking at a photograph. That's me, thirty-five years ago, posing for the camera. I crouch with an M-16 rifle in my left hand, wearing fatigues. Round my neck is the neckerchief I always wore to wipe away the sweat. I'm lean and fit. I certainly wasn't overweight when I arrived in Vietnam, but nevertheless the pounds dropped off me as I humped heavy packs around all day in that oppressive heat. Within a matter of weeks, I'd lost about two stone.
Somewhere I've still got a book of photographs I took in Vietnam, including pictures of me like this one that I asked someone else to take with my camera. I used to have a stack of slides as well, but I lost them when they went off to a lab to be made into prints. Over the years I've tried once or twice to show these pictures to my daughters, but they've always resisted it. They don't want to know anything about my time in Vietnam. None of my family does, not even Sally.
I'm living in this horrible bedsit. It's right on the main road. At night, the whole house seems to shake as the lorries thunder past. The cheap curtains over the window are too flimsy to block out the passing headlights. I had to come here after my sister told me it was time to move out. Now my home is this anonymous room, lined with woodchip paper. There's a sink and a two-ring Baby Belling cooker in one corner. A pile of washing-up fills the sink; I don't really have the heart to clean up. To get to the bathroom means leaving my room, going along the corridor and up the stairs. The landlord warned me to lock my door behind me, even if I'm only going for a pee. And then of course I need to take a key. I don't bother: I just take a plastic bottle to bed with me and pee into that.
This isn't how I expected my life would be. When I was a young man living in Pennsylvania, I imagined a comfortable house in the suburbs, a white picket fence, a screen on the door. Perhaps a flag on the lawn. My wife cooking me a meal while I mess around in my den, polishing my knives or fiddling with one of my guns. Or perhaps in the garage, tuning an automobile engine.
I fish around in the supermarket carrier-bag that I use for my personal belongings, and pull out a battered cardboard roll. Inside is my commission, a little creased and faded after all these years. I sit down on the floor against the wall and unroll the piece of card that once made me feel so proud. As I read it here in this empty room, I feel the sobs welling up inside.

PART I: England

1

Surrey, 1999

It's getting dark now, and I'm staring down a conveyor belt of approaching headlights.
I'm driving out of town, on a mild January evening. An ordinary, middle-aged, suburban man, with a house, a garden, a wife and two cats, on his way home at the close of a normal day.
The car radio's playing, not too loud. I'm not really listening, just enjoying the freedom of being out on the road after being stuck inside the auction-rooms with all those people. I'm not comfortable with crowds these days. I suppose you could say I'm a bit of a recluse. Soon I'll be safe home with Sally.
Jesus! What the hell was that bang? I can feel an ugly vibration through the floor. There's a grinding noise coming from the nearside, and the steering-wheel starts pulling to the left. Oh, Christ, a blow-out.
For a few seconds I debate whether to pull over. This is a lonely stretch of road - not the sort of place you want to leave
a car. If I abandon it now and come back for it tomorrow morning, I doubt it will still be in one piece. Anyway, I'm reluctant to step out of my nice warm cocoon. There's an isolated twenty-four-hour Shell garage a few hundred yards ahead where I should be able to leave it safely. I drive on slowly, nursing the wounded car forward.
On second thoughts, I tell myself this is silly: you'll damage the wheel if you go on. As my foot moves towards the brake pedal, I glance in the rear-view mirror: a single headlight, coming up fast. A police motorcyclist overtakes, then slows to flag me down. Hell and damnation. I had a bottle of wine at lunchtime.
I pull over and he stops in front of me. He doesn't look back as he dismounts. A gauntlet switches off the engine and a boot kicks down the stand. Then his shoulders push the bike up and forward into a resting position. It's all very slow and deliberate. He turns round, shedding the gauntlets. I can't see his face, just the streetlight glinting off his helmet.
I get out and walk round the Scorpio to look at the damage; both nearside tyres have gone. What a mess. As I'm bending over to examine them, I'm aware of the motorcyclist behind me. I can see his leather toecap out of the corner of my eye, and hear the static from his radio. I straighten up, shrugging my shoulders.
He tells me that I've driven straight across a hole in the
road. The visor's up now and I can see his face. He looks sympathetic, but says that he's going to have to conduct a breath test. I suppose he can smell the alcohol. As he fishes in his pocket, I think, Thank you, God, the perfect end to a perfect
day.