7

“The surest way for the people to liberate themselves is through revolutionary violence and revolutionary war. There are many forms of revolutionary violence: a political violence, an armed violence, and a violence that combines the two. Against the policies of the enemy that firmly maintain an absolute grip on politics and at the same time exploit military forces as a political weapon to suppress our revolution, our Vietnamese comrades now must exercise a political violence coupled with armed revolt.

“Thanks to the revolutionary struggle waged by our comrades, we have learned how to revive our people and how to develop our precious experience.”

Pham Minh was reading a speech given by General Vo Nguyen Giap published in Hoc Tap.

“Unification can be realized through the accomplishment of the socialist revolution in the North and of the national democratic revolution in the South, thereby overcoming internal conflicts and jointly calling forth the subliminal national consciousness.”

He couldn’t keep reading because of the sound of the rain. It was pouring outside. The morning session of political education was over and discussion was scheduled for the afternoon. The pinging of raindrops striking the broad leaves of surrounding trees filled the entire space of the open quarters. Ten of his comrades were staying together there on bamboo bunks. It was a large thatched hut, with palm leaves fastened over the straw roof for camouflage. From the sky it blended into the dark green of the jungle. A dozen similar structures had been built along the edge of the dense rainforest. It was a conveniently located assembly point for guerrilla volunteers sent by their respective regional committees. After assembling there, they would be sent on to the provisional military school for training.

The eight men who had departed from Da Nang had left heading westward on a freight truck bound for the Central Highlands. Thanh sat next to the driver and the others rode in the back with their assorted gear. They passed easily through several checkpoints near Da Nang by showing their IDs, but the inspections got stricter as they went deeper in. They made a space in the middle of the truck’s bed under sacks of rice, dried fish, and the other miscellaneous cargo they were hauling from the city. There was so little room that the seven of them in the back had to be cramped together with legs bent and nearly entwined. At checkpoints, they could overhear the casual dialogue exchanged between Thanh and the police.

“Long time no see. How are your nephews doing?”

“Thanks to you they’re fine. How’re things on the other side?”

“Operations have been stepped up, so all the roads have been completely blocked. You’ll probably have to make a detour through the mountains.”

“Thanks. Let me and my nephews through.”

“Tell them your destination is a village half a mile on; they’ll be less suspicious.”

After the cursory checking of the cargo in the back, the truck was allowed to pass. From that checkpoint onward was an area where control was contested. From the standpoint of the NLF it was a liberated area, but ever since the US and government forces started their pacification operations no vehicles were allowed through without inspection. When they reached a mountain pass and heard gunfire and shelling, the truck turned back and they continued on foot.

“The infiltration is getting worse. The chief guard at that last checkpoint was one of our sympathizers, but you never know when he’ll change his mind. I suppose he’ll cooperate as long as his family lives in our territory. There’s been some change in the situation, so we’ll have to march through these highlands for three days or so.”

With Thanh as guide the group made their way through the area of battle operations. A few times US patrols passed right by their hiding places and they were fired upon more than once. One of the group, a former teacher, was wounded. They kept walking, taking turns helping him.

In the depths of the jungle, with monkeys howling and lizards slithering, it felt like being stranded in purgatory. As they reached the edge of Tungdik army territory, the injured man died. His wound had gotten infected and they could not stop the bleeding. All they had to give him was some antibiotics Thanh brought with him. An unbearable stench had begun to emanate from his legs, which were swollen and black like rotting tree trunks. As he grew closer to dying, he had to be carried by Pham Minh and one of the ARVN7 deserters on a stretcher they had fashioned from vines and branches.

The teacher moved his parched, chapped lips, moaning Rrr . . . rrrk rrrk.

“Thanh, we’ve got to give him some water.”

Thanh checked the map they had wrapped around the man’s knee as a bandage. “We have to reach the Tungdik army zone before sunset. There’s no time to lose.”

Thanh went over to the stretcher where Pham Minh and the other bearer had set it down. Another in the group held out a vinyl bag filled with water. Pham Minh pulled out the stopper and placed the bag at the mouth of the wounded teacher. Most of the water spilled to the ground.

“He’s dead,” said Thanh.

His mind blank, Pham Minh kept his eyes on the little bit of water that flowed slowly, uselessly, into the open mouth as if down a sink drain. Between the wet lips, the even teeth stuck together like welded metal. Thanh lifted his hand to the motionless eyes and swept the lids closed.

“Long live the Vietnamese liberation,” he murmured quietly.

Then Thanh went through the dead man’s pockets to remove his personal effects and took his backpack, made from pieces of a raincoat. Among the items he picked up, Thanh took out the yellow ID card issued by the Vietnamese government and tossed it down on the corpse’s chest. They resumed their march. The jungle downpours and the burning midday heat would soon peel off his rotting flesh and before long he would become a human skeleton so clean that not even the flies would bother it.

As soon as they reached Tungdik territory, another liaison agent took Thanh’s place. Before departing Thanh took Minh over to a shady spot under a tree. The two were about the same age but Thanh looked much older. The determination in his eyes, his hair cut short like a peasant’s and the shine of his darkly tanned cheeks made him look like a man over thirty. Pham Minh was exhausted. He realized that one day he too would be a grown man. Thanh spoke warmly as he would have to a beloved younger brother.

“I’m headed back to my duty assignment. You’ll stay here for a week before being sent for training at the school in Atwat.”

“Are you going back to Da Nang?”

“No . . . I’m posted at Hue. We may never see each other again. I expect the district committee may give me a new mission. Not on underground assignments anymore, probably leading an action group. I’ve been out of action for some time.”

“I’ll come and see you in Hue.”

“Come and see me?”

Thanh laughed. When he laughed, his face looked just like when he was a little boy. Minh remembered way back to New Year’s when they used to throw fireworks made from hollow bamboo sticks at the houses in the neighborhood. When the women saw the beautiful sparks flying followed by the loud cracks, they handed out sweet rice cakes and candies, thanking them for scaring away all the evil spirits.

And he remembered the time when Thanh had been bitten by a dog at the old rubber factory run by the French. When a brown-haired foreign woman tried to treat his wound he shook his head, weeping. For he had heard dozens of times from his mother and brother that his father had died because of those French people. But those were the happy days.

Thanh was tall and skinny and Minh had been a sissy-looking boy known for his sweet singing voice. As his voice deepened, as mortar shells destroyed the lilacs at the Lycée Pascal, everything had changed. All that was gone now. The peace accords were shattered. Then along came the elections. Until then neither Thanh nor Minh thought about the future of Vietnam. When their parents spoke of Dien Bien Phu, to the boys it was no more than a far-off place as vague as the places in their French readers, like the Eiffel Tower or the River Seine.

“The training period at Atwat will probably be two months,” Thanh said with a grave look on his face. “I trust you will be a skilled guerrilla.”

Thanh seemed purposely to limit his talk to matters of military duty, so Minh blurted out, “Thanh, when you go to Da Nang . . . why don’t you see your parents, at least once?”

Thanh put his hand on Minh’s shoulder. For the first time since leaving Da Nang his expression was warm and friendly.

“You’d rather I see Chan Te Shoan than my own parents, right?”

Pham Minh turned his head and did not reply. Perhaps there was truth in what Thanh had said.

“Whether you return to Da Nang or go to Hue, or to Saigon, in any event, by then you will have forgotten about Shoan. To be a liberation fighter does not only mean that you’ll be turned into a man capable of fighting, it means you’ll be born again as a revolutionist with an entirely new body and soul. That our grandfather Ho was born in Quimluyen in Nghe An province as Nguyen Sinh Cung meant a meaningless birth under colonialism. However, when he later returned from abroad to Indochina using the name Nguyen Ai Quoc, he was born again as a member of the Vietnamese race. And that he came to be called Ho Chi Minh was because he devoted his whole life to leading the Vietnamese people. Pham Minh, there’s no time for us to look back.”

Pham Minh was perplexed by the icy zeal in Thanh’s voice.

“Well, I was just talking about . . . about your parents,” Minh falteringly said. “Your mother is . . .”

“A very good woman,” Thanh said hastily, as if to cut Minh off. “She brought me into this world. Like Vietnam did. By the way, when you . . . well, this is a tough question for anyone, but if you are about to die, who’d be the first person you’d want notified?”

The question stung, like pricking a finger on a thorn. During the past three days on the way to Tungdik territory, the possibility of death had hung over them the entire time.

“In revolution there are only two outcomes. Either to be killed by the enemy or to win victory. Death is one’s own, but victory belongs to the masses. Pham Minh, the chance you will die alone is a thousand times more likely. Unless we firmly believe that victory is ours after we die, an all-out struggle of this kind can never last. When that moment of death comes to you, whom do you want to be informed first, that is what I am asking. Your mother? Your brother? . . . Chan Te Shoan?”

“I don’t think I can say.”

Pham Minh had to give an ambiguous answer. The question was overwhelming. Minh realized how hideously foolish he had been. He, who had walked voluntarily into the jaws of death, had not even once thought of dying. He thought of his fallen comrade, the former teacher, with curly hair and nice, even teeth. At that point no one could have found their way back to the ridge where they had left his dead body. In the tangle of trees and dense vegetation, they could not even say with certainty where in Vietnam they had been. Unless the corpse got up and walked away, it would disappear on that forgotten ridge, among scavenging lizards and swarms of flies. It was not the same as being bombarded and dying surrounded by the wails of family members. After all, isn’t a guerrilla one with no name, no identity, no past, not even a face? Thanh continued:

“It doesn’t matter if you can’t answer. Our death is dedicated to the national liberation of Vietnam. So there’s only one place you should want notice of your death sent. The National Liberation Front. Nothing is more wretched than death without conviction.”

At first, Pham Minh was jarred and invigorated as from a thorn prick, but gradually the sensation faded. Thanh did not seem to be talking to him at all, but shouting aloud to himself, with all of his thoughts focused obsessively on a single object.

“Your mother is a mother,” said Pham Minh, “she is not Vietnam. I was just asking if you wouldn’t like to see your mother.”

“You’ve seen how bananas are fried. When you put a lump of lard in the frying pan, it melts slowly, losing its shape. Then it gets watery and spreads out evenly on the bottom of the pan. The same is true of my mother. I know what you’re trying to say. I’m too much a formalist, that’s what you mean. You’re saying I don’t understand life.”

Thanh paused for a while and hung his head. When he raised it again, Pham Minh, seeing his cheeks wet, felt like he was choking.

“Listen, Pham Minh, of all the new recruits starting out from Suanmai Military School, Tanh Hoa Teachers College, and my alma mater, Dong Hoi Military School, almost a quarter drop dead from malaria or heatstroke or something as they march down the endless road on the Laotian border. They die even before they reach the battlefields where bombs rain down like a hailstorm. Most who make it into battle die within two years. It’s been only a year and a half since I started with the guerrillas. Already most of the comrades I started with are dead. In this business of warfare against a gigantic nation like the US, you have no other means but to endure, holding out to the end while exchanging human lives for things. And now why do you think I should distinguish my mother from Vietnam when I think of her? Mother has already melted away, shapeless like the lard, soaked into every corner of this torn land of ours.”

Thanh shook his head violently and fell silent for a moment. Pham Minh took out two cigarettes and put one in Thanh’s mouth.

Thanh said in a quiet voice, “I’m sorry, I’ve been babbling, swept away by emotions.”

He took a deep puff, gazing at Pham Minh’s exhausted face. Thanh tugged Minh’s tender cheek and went on softly.

“Listen to me, you child. Shoan will be graduating soon, won’t she? If she wants to go on studying she’ll have to go to Hue or Saigon, but in wartime I don’t think her parents will let her. Then, what next? You know what rich parents in the city do with their daughters, don’t you? If they can’t send them abroad, they’ll hurry to marry them off. To an old man, or to an officer in the military, or to a landlord’s heir loafing about at home while supposedly on reserve duty with the navy or the air force.”

Pham Minh glared at Thanh. “What are you saying?”

“I’ll tell you a little tale. It’s a bit superstitious. There’s nothing so heartbreaking as a love story in these times. But heartbreaking emotions weaken us and warp our minds. There’s a saying that a fighter who carries a photo of his lover with him will be killed without fail. It applies to our enemies as well. The grim reaper must love snatching the lives of lovers.”

Pham Minh tossed away his cigarette butt and got to his feet. Thanh did the same.

“Don’t be angry, Pham Minh, it’s very important to talk this over. Unless you’re exceptionally strong, you can’t avoid the hundreds of coincidences out there. I have to go.”

The two looked at each other. Pham Minh awkwardly said, “The reason I came . . . I myself was surprised. I still don’t know whether joining was the right thing to do.”

“You’ll do fine. You’re not a weakling, my friend. Now I really have to go.”

Pham Minh felt like crying. It had not been this bad when he slipped away from the bomb shelter behind Uncle Trinh’s house, leaving Shoan. The changes in Thanh, his childhood friend, and his words of zealotry had confused him. All those vague passions he had felt back in school now seemed vain and empty like a summer night’s dream. From now everything in his past was gone. After robbing Minh of his nostalgia, Thanh was already off to places unknown. When Pham Minh took a few steps forward to grasp him by the shoulders, Thanh held out his hand, “Chao ong, Pham Minh.”

In the confusion of the moment, Pham Minh took his hand limply. Thanh shook it and turned to go.

Pham Minh opened Hoc Tap again.

“The history of peoples’ wars is the universal law of the development of the class struggle, the unfolding of the revolutionary capacity of the people, which in the beginning is weak, but which grows strong, clearly proves through the evidence of history that a people’s war develops in accordance with that universal law. In this process of development, the people’s war inevitably must pass through many difficulties and undulations, reversals and retreats, but no power can alter the general trend of marching ever forward on the road to victory.”

The words in the text were shimmering and the meaning was slow to be absorbed into Pham Minh’s head. He suddenly realized that he had read the same lines three times. He shut the book and lay down, folding his arms behind his head. Raindrops running off the leaves felt cold on his toes. All around he could see volunteers lying here and there or sitting in small clusters and talking.

There were about fifty men who had come from the Second and Third Special Districts. The First Special District, Saigon, had three special action units numbered 159, 65, and 67. A special action unit normally had between one hundred and two hundred fifty members. Urban guerrillas usually consisted of students, laborers, teachers, office staff, merchants, military deserters, and so on. Most of them had made contact with lower level operations agents before being screened by the NLF district committees and the People’s Revolutionary Party.

Once the list of volunteers’ names was received, they had to pass a thorough investigation of their past and were under surveillance for a certain period. Then they would be sent to the provisional schools in the border region for military training and special education to become urban guerrillas. At intervals of two or three months, the groups that passed through the screening arrived at the assembly points.

They were not allowed to talk to each other about their birthplaces or their occupations, nor were they allowed to mix with those in earlier or later training groups. Since the people now undergoing training at this place were to be assigned to various places scattered around Hue and Da Nang, in most cases they would only get to know about ten others who fell into the same group. It seemed that all the volunteers expected had arrived, and they would soon depart from Maram, the assembly point, for the training facility in the Atwat Mountains. An officer in the regular khaki uniform of the Viet Cong had arrived the day before. The ten common huts that housed volunteers were about half-empty. In each were people in black Vietnamese clothing, in one hut all the occupants were women. Most of the women were quite young and a few still had the long hair characteristic of schoolgirls. Pham Minh was startled by the thought that Shoan might be among them.

“Even on stormy days, time goes on.”

Pham Minh thought of those words from Uncle Trinh, who had been lying on his back smoking opium.

“Minh, a shooting star!”

He could still hear Shoan’s surprised voice as she held his hand tightly in hers. The inside of the bomb shelter behind Uncle Trinh’s house was very cozy. The cement ceiling was a bit damp and the blanket on the ground was wet, but there was no barricade and no guards anywhere nearby. Through the square ventilation hole overhead you could see the night sky. When you took a deep breath, the fragrance of roses and cannas and chrysanthemums seemed to penetrate all the way into your lungs. The relentless pounding of cannon and the rattle of automatic weapons in the distance also had gradually subsided as daybreak approached. The flares could no longer rip open the sky. Shoan kept on trembling. But it was because of the chill of dawn sneaking into her thin ahozai, and she was calm and unashamed when Pham Minh undressed her. As the morning sun rose on the far horizon, they heard the chirping of the birds as they soared up in the air for the sake of that fleeting and precious dawn. Shoan’s face was bluish white from the chill and the sorrow of parting.

As the sunlight broke into the shelter, Pham Minh could see the ugly hills of Dong Dao standing under the patch of sky. Trenches and barbed wire and sandbags were strewn everywhere you looked. American soldiers with blackened cheeks were clambering down the side of the mountains. Shoan’s lips were cold and parched.

Footnote:

7 Army of the Republic of Vietnam