28

China Beach was not at all crowded, perhaps because it was a weekday. The open theater, where they were showing some trashy TV movie, had a lot of empty seats. No live show was scheduled until Saturday. Colorful posters hailing the arrival of a dance revue from the States had been distributed by the entertainment office of the US Army in Hawaii and were plastered all over the walls of the rec center. The lights were off in the little thatched-roof commissary in front of the theater, but soldiers could be seen playing poker and the slot machines in the bar, a converted barracks, next door. Soldiers were sitting in a line at the bar.

Because it was night, Yong Kyu was in his American jungle fatigues. It was not a good idea for an Asian to be dressed in civilian clothes at night. Rather than sit at the bar he took a chair over by the window where a sea breeze was blowing in. A GI in military-issue pants and a red Hawaiian shirt walked over to the jukebox and dropped a coin in. A trumpet blare was followed by Frank Sinatra singing in a voice that seemed to flow over lustful lips. Yong Kyu bought a can of beer and nursed it slowly. The smell of the ocean wafted in with the wind. Ten after seven. Leon walked in and looked around. After spotting Yong Kyu, he came over and sat down across the table.

“Did you drive?”

“I rented a van.”

“Good, restricted areas are off-limits for me. I came over by the navy bus. Armed?”

“Not at all.”

“Look, even in broad daylight Somdomeh is a dangerous place. I brought my pistol.” Leon pulled a .45 out of his belt and showed it to Yong Kyu.

“If it’s so dangerous, how come Stapley’s been holed up there for days?” Yong Kyu asked.

“That’s easy to answer,” Leon replied. “He’s AWOL, that’s why. Not even the NLF will attack you once you’ve declared your neutrality.”

“I’m sure his friends are also safe. Don’t worry. For these past six months I’ve felt safe even in the jungle. Nothing to fear except the booby traps.”

They went outside. Somdomeh was a vast sprawl of campside villages that had sprung up like mushrooms on both sides of the road leading from China Beach down to the navy hospital and the helicopter pad. All along the road there were shacks in thick clusters, made from iron sheets, plywood, and boxes that had been liberated from the American bases. Makeshift shops selling canned beer and other drinks had brothels in their back rooms. Other shops offered kitschy souvenirs, folk crafts, and gaudy apparel. There was no electricity, so the shacks were dimly lit with candles or kerosene lamps.

Along the road, a few American soldiers who appeared to be either AWOL or on leave from one of the nearby bases were flirting with the prostitutes. The sound of giggles and shrieks filled the air. Used to seeing such spectacles of campside life ever since he was a boy, Yong Kyu found nothing particularly surprising in these displays. Leon seemed tense, with one hand stuck in his belt under his shirt as though he had a firm grip on his gun.

“That’s the house. Pull right up in front.”

Following Leon’s direction, Yong Kyu stopped the car in front of a store with a low metal awning. He shut off the engine and they got out of the van. Leon walked up and started pounding on the door. From inside a woman’s voice was heard, and when Leon said he had come to see the American, the door beneath the awning opened a crack. They bent down and crept inside the shop. A Vietnamese girl was standing with a red candle in her hand. Inside some tables and chairs were neatly arranged and there was a refrigerator in the corner. Someone could be heard approaching from the other end of a dark hall, and Stapley suddenly appeared.

“Hey, Leon and you, Ahn, how’ve you been?”

Stapley already had a start on the brown beard of a pacifist and was wearing Vietnamese-style black clothing.

“You crazy bastard!” Leon said, giving him a punch in the shoulder.

Stapley ignored Leon’s remark and ushered them into a room. A box resembling a dresser was in the corner and a lit kerosene lamp was on top of it. In the center of the room stood a Buddhist altar draped with red silk, holding a white ceramic bowl filled with rice in which was stuck a red stick of incense shaped like a chopstick. It smelled like greasy cosmetics. Against the right wall there was a bamboo cot, and facing it was a long wooden bench with cushions covered in rough hemp fabric. Sitting down on the cot, Stapley said to Leon and Yong Kyu, “Have a seat.”

The Vietnamese girl, clad in brightly-colored clothing with a pattern of tiny flowers, stood at the door with another woman watching the three of them. The other woman was heavily made up and dressed in tight sky blue pants and a T-shirt.

“This is Sang and that’s her older sister, Ran. This house is theirs. Now, what’ll you have to drink?”

“Any whiskey?” Leon asked.

Sang, who understood English, announced, “We have whiskey and Coke. Lemonade, too.”

When the two women had gone, Leon asked, “Are they both whores?”

Stapley shrugged his shoulders and then nodded. “That’s their line of work, all right, but generally speaking they’re very gentle and good-hearted women. Their family lives out back across the yard. Besides them, there are three more women working here. If you call, they’ll be here right away with towels. The boss is Sang and Ran’s mother. She handles the money.”

It had been only five days since Stapley went AWOL, but already there was no lingering trace of his having been a soldier. He might have been a hippie on a tour of Asia. He kept on chain-smoking those grassy Truong cigarettes. He had ditched his army boots and in their place he wore Ho Chi Minh sandals with soles made from tires. Around his neck hung a pendent carved from a tree root with the words “Run, Rat!” burned into the wood.

“What the hell are you planning to do?” Leon asked.

“I’m getting out of this infernal shithole, if I can.”

“You’re in one hell of a fix. Nobody’s on your side. The jungle is crawling with enemies, and our guys want to arrest your ass and lock you up. Better turn yourself in right now. After doing your time, they’ll send you right back to your unit.”

Stapley turned away from Leon and asked Yong Kyu, “Ahn, what do you think? Am I wrong to oppose this war?”

Yong Kyu smiled. “In the Korean army, deserters can be executed by a firing squad. And . . . if I felt like you, I wouldn’t have come here in the first place. We sort of volunteered for this.”

“You volunteered to come here? I’m shocked.”

“I had no choice, actually. Once our basic training was over, my whole unit was transferred here. Anyway, your government probably promised our government some kind of military aid or economic grants. The way I see it, if you felt this strongly, you shouldn’t have come here at all, or else you should wait it out and then once you’re back home you should do something with your friends to stop this war from continuing any longer.”

“I was a draft resister, of course,” Stapley said. “At first I fled to a different state. Those were hard times—I couldn’t get any work. In the end I was arrested. To prison or to Vietnam, that was my choice. I chose to come here. Some did go to prison in the end. Compared to the deep scars I’ve gotten since arriving here, theirs may be lighter to bear. For a time I was a gunner in a helicopter, in those days I saw plenty. If I’d gone to prison they would have called me a coward and deprived me of civil rights, but at least I would have felt light-hearted like a martyr.”

“Enough,” Leon said. “What Ahn said is right. You’re already here and you’ve already been through it all. All you need to do now is wait it out for a little while and then go home.”

“It wasn’t so much that I couldn’t hold out. I’m never going back to America.”

They heard glasses clinking through the back door. It opened and Sang and Ran came in.

“I need a place to hide out for about twenty days. Have you found one?” Stapley said, glancing at Yong Kyu. “Somdomeh is an off-limits zone, and MPs often patrol around here. I can’t stay for long.”

“We’ve found you a place,” Leon replied. “You can move over there tonight if you want.”

“No, not until tomorrow morning,” Yong Kyu said. “My friend Toi knows the place.”

“How much?”

“Sergeant Ahn rented it for a month,” Leon said offhandedly, “the price is still to be settled.”

“I have to get to Saigon. I heard there’s an AWOL rescue organization there.”

“We know that. But the roads out of here are all closely watched. You won’t be able to get onto the air base and there are sentries posted at all the piers.”

Yong Kyu thought otherwise. “There may be a way. If you go by Route 1 the trip takes three days. You could hide in a cargo truck. Five thousand piasters is the going rate, but since you would be risky cargo, they might charge two or three times that. On the road you’d have to pass quite a few NLF checkpoints.”

“It’s impossible to go by water? A ship from a neutral country would be ideal.”

“Every so often a third-country vessel—India, Burma, Japan—comes in. But as soon as you try to book passage they might turn their back on you or, worse, turn you in. Unless you can find somebody in Da Nang to hook you up with the AWOL network in Saigon, then the land route to Saigon is your only bet.”

Yong Kyu explained the results of his inquiries over the past few days. As he mixed them some drinks, Stapley displayed a strong resolve. “I have three thousand dollars. For half that amount, I bet I can get a passage to Burma at least. Or maybe to Bangkok.”

Sang and Ran perched on the wooden bench side by side like a pair of birds and waited for the conversation to end. Leon gulped down a few drinks and murmured with a yawn, “I’m getting sleepy. It’s been a hectic day.”

“Go in and get some rest. The boys all are doing OK, I hope?”

“We made a wager—I bet twenty dollars on your successful getaway.”

“Who’s on the other side?”

“Everybody but me. Nobody thinks you’ll make it.”

“You’ll be the winner, I’ll see to that.”

“You crazy bastard! I’m going in to take a nap.”

Leon stood and looked at the two girls. “Who’s going to be the mommy to sing a lullaby for me?”

Ran smiled and followed him inside. Stapley held up his glass to Yong Kyu. “Let’s drink to my homeland.”

Yong Kyu quietly observed Stapley, thinking. What will become of the two of us? Will we always be able to propose a friendly toast like now? His fate and mine could be completely opposite. He’ll end up being a good American citizen, grimacing at his monthly bills. By then bombs may be raining on my homeland and the ragged corpses of my fellow countrymen will be strewn all over a war-ravaged land. Reading the newspaper over breakfast some morning, he may happen upon an article about devastation in a foreign land far away. Yong Kyu realized that for the first time he was getting to know an American as an individual.

“Do you not want to go home?” Stapley asked as they drank. Yong Kyu answered in a somber tone.

“You don’t have to return to America if you don’t want to, but I have to go back to Korea even if there’s no home to go home to.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our country is divided, like a body severed in half. My real home is in the North. It was only after I came to Vietnam that I began to see my homeland objectively. You people here . . . you taught me to do that.”

Stapley shook his head, waving the glass in his hand. “Not true. I don’t know. Not me, but they must, in Washington or on Wall Street. It’s them, not me. Me and my brother were living in a dark basement studio, no sunlight through the windows. We didn’t even have cash to buy a new shirt. They’re the ones who made all the bombs and established the order of this filthy world. That’s why I’m splitting for good from that goddamned wonderful place, America.

“Hear me out. When napalm is dropped, it burns up the grass, burns up the rocks on the ground, too. As it burns, the napalm sucks away all of the oxygen in the area, so if people don’t get burned to death, they die from suffocation. Bombs explode below the surface when they hit bottom in swamps or rice paddies. Everything alive in the water is disintegrated, blown to microscopic bits, by the pressure of the shock that instantly blasts in all directions. Then there are the white phosphorus shells. When one of those hits, whether on land or water, whether there’s air or not, it burns on to the core at an incredible temperature. CBVs—they have compressed air inside that upon explosion sprays thousands of pieces of lead everywhere, cutting down everything within several square yards. You can set them for delayed detonation, so a mass of people, thinking they’re safe, come out of their hiding places and gather around the beehive before it goes off. Even if the wounded survive, the lead fragments will rot the flesh and soon that part of the body will have to be amputated.

“They have a gigantic three-thousand-pound bomb that bursts in the air, showering down hundreds of little bombs. You name it, high-velocity aircraft rockets, sidewinders, sparrows, shrikes, all kinds of tear gas and chemical bombs, defoliants that dehydrate and kill entire jungles, just to name some of the arsenal dropped from the sky. They may not be nuclear weapons, but they violate the Geneva Convention rules on weapons of war. Sitting up in my helicopter, I’ve seen countless bombs explode, shelling saturating the landscape, razing villages and annihilating people.

“The M60 machine gunners call themselves ‘monkey hunters.’ Even when there’s no operational situation, they think it an entertaining sport to spot targets and take them out. Sitting up there in an armored helicopter with a machine gun in their hands, they feel like millionaires out on a leisurely safari in the jungle. No shit, even if your helicopter malfunctions and drops from the sky, we have so many aircraft around, you can be picked up within ten minutes. Just think of it, in order to strike down a single farmer running like hell in the furrows of his field, they’ll fire hundreds of rounds, shoot rockets, and if that doesn’t work, they’ll call up for artillery.

“After I came to Turen, life became even harder to bear. Look at all that stuff stacked high in the supply warehouse. I can recite the names of all the big corporations who deliver all of those military supplies. And now, what’s the point of my struggle here?”

Yong Kyu interrupted him. “You were up in the sky. Well, I crawled in the jungle. You can see much better down on the ground.”

“Your soldiers also wonder about all this?”

Yong Kyu could not help but laugh. “When we look at you, you all look like hairy baboons, you all look the same. And I’m sure it’s the same with you when you look at us.”

“Us?”

“Yes, Asians, I mean. The whites think we are humans without any souls.”

“I see what you mean.”

“We’ve long been living in conditions like this,” Yong Kyu muttered bitterly, and, glancing back at Sang, went on. “Ask her, this girl should know all about it. The Korean War broke out when I was eight years old. Well, a few years after my birth, we were released from colonial status. But my parents’ generation was forced to serve in armies of colonials and many were killed, just like now, all over Asia and the Pacific in wars fought by the imperialist powers. At that time, you people were already involved. Your government partitioned our country and occupied it.

“As I work with Americans, the one thing I hate most is to listen to you people say how alike we are, how I’m no different from an American, and other garbage like that. In the same breath I hear you guys whispering how filthy the Vietnamese gooks are. ‘Gook’ is the label American soldiers picked up in the Korean War from the word ‘Hanguk,’ mispronouncing it ‘Han-goook.’ Americans used it to make fun of us. But I tell you, it is the Vietnamese that I am like.

“These conditions we’re living through now are the same exact conditions almost all Asians have endured for the past century. On many continents whites have fought each other with bloodied teeth and claws, like predators fighting over prey. Don’t pretend to be shocked. Even if you refuse to take part in this lousy war and succeed in escaping, you’ll have to live the rest of your life burdened by what you’ve seen and heard on the battlefield. It’ll be the same with me, of course, but I’ve made up my mind to make up for it when I go back home.

“In your newspapers I saw photos of demonstrators carrying picket signs that read: ‘We don’t want to die for Vietnam!’ What could be more absurd and hideous than that? What? Die for Vietnam? Your soldiers were dragged over here from the back alleys of filthy slums, from the dark bars where they were drinking, from the supermarkets where they rushed with discount coupons, from greasy floors beneath automobiles. You ask me why? Because the children of the wealthy were not about to come, that’s why. Ask your businessmen and their salesmen who conduct politics. It’s for them that you’ve been dying like dogs in the swamps of Vietnam.”

“Even I know that much,” Stapley replied. “Our armies go around the world taming people to our ways, making them docile so they can be devoured. The idea that we are fighting for Vietnam or for their unification is a moronic sentimentality from our government. The capitalists are trying their best, according to their interest-based policies, to keep from losing this little foothold.”

Yong Kyu felt drunk. In such a locale, the simplest expression, as simple as a military song, was best. To be sure, the lyrics of a military song seemed to fit very well the spectacle of this war. “Proud and brave, to protect freedom and the peace of Vietnam, you take part in this sacred war as a glorious crusader of freedom.” Yong Kyu set down his empty glass. “It’s getting late. Are you trying to make me talk the whole night away?”

“No, take Sang with you and get some sleep.”

“Isn’t she yours?”

“Let’s do the moving tomorrow. Good night.”

Stapley lifted his half-filled glass. Yong Kyu followed Sang, stumbling down the hall. It was more of a tunnel lined with bamboo than a hall. At the end it opened into a small field bunker. There was a basin, a pitcher of water and a garbage basket in one corner. Yong Kyu took off his combat boots. Sang poured water into the basin and put his feet into the water.

“Is this your home?” Yong Kyu asked.

“No, it’s far.” She lifted one finger and pointed into the air. “My home, in country. I came here one year ago.”

“Whole family?”

“No, my husband didn’t come.”

“Husband? You are married?”

“Yes, he’s a soldier, a sergeant.”

“Where is he now?”

“Hue.”

“Your child?”

“Sleeping in there. Pretty.” Sang smiled naturally and placed both palms to her cheek, making a gesture of sleeping. She looked happy.

“This life, is it all right with you?”

“What do you mean? My family—father, mother, sister, and baby—is together now, that’s very good. Everything is fine.”

Sang dried Yong Kyu’s feet with a towel and then she helped him take off his jacket.

“Twenty dollars.”

Yong Kyu pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar military note. She took the money and turned to leave.

“I’ll give the money to Madam and come back,” she said. “You need a fan?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Well . . .” Sang lowered her voice and asked in a whisper, “You running away, too?”

“Not me. You know about Stapley’s problem?”

“Yes, but nobody can run away from here. I worry about him.”

Yong Kyu lay back on the bed. “He’s going to make it.”

The next morning when he woke up, Yong Kyu found that Leon already had crossed the river at dawn by the first military bus. Stapley was still knocked out by the booze, sleeping naked in the hammock in the backyard. Beneath his limp arm was an empty bottle.

“Hey, wake up.”

Yong Kyu shook the hammock, but Stapley only frowned. After trying a few times, Yong Kyu looked back and saw Sang standing there with a bucket of water in her hands.

“Water is the only way.”

“Won’t he be angry?”

“It’s OK, we’ve done it before a few times.”

Yong Kyu took the bucket and emptied it over Stapley’s head. Stapley shuddered and shook his head, then slowly sat up in the hammock and wiped his face with both hands.

Yong Kyu tossed the bucket aside and said, “Sorry. It’s almost time to go and meet Toi.”

“All right.” He then turned his blurry eyes to Sang.

“No water to drink?”

“You have civilian clothes, don’t you?” asked Yong Kyu.

“Should be in the trunk.”

“Put them on.”

After a short while Stapley reappeared in the hall wearing work pants and a T-shirt. He had on a pair of sunglasses.

“What do you say? Can I pass for a civilian?”

“You look like one of our agents. Anyway, after you move to the new place, don’t even think about going outside during the day.”

They drove the van slowly up through Somdomeh. Whenever a military truck passed by with a honk, Stapley gave them the finger to tease them.

“Don’t do anything conspicuous.”

“How the hell would they know?”

“Your going AWOL has been reported up the command channels, and the investigations headquarters has your file by now. You have your ID card, don’t you?”

“I tore it up.”

Yong Kyu clicked his tongue and pulled the van over.

“That wasn’t very smart! Now somebody can kill you and nobody will know about you. Look, without your ID card, what’s the point of babbling about traveling to a neutral country or hooking up with the AWOL rescue network? How can you convince anybody that you’re an American soldier?”

Stapley just chuckled. “I don’t exist in Vietnam. Shit, they’ll believe I’m an American soldier when I show them the greenbacks in my pocket. US dollars mean US soldier.”

“Without an ID, don’t hang out anywhere at night, just stay put in that house.”

Yong Kyu threw both hands into the air as if to ask what else could be done, then took the wheel again. Shifting roughly, they moved into the first block of Somdomeh.

“It’d be nice if you’d join me,” murmured Stapley.

“Shut up.”

As Toi had said, they came upon a souvenir shop with flags of all nations in the window. Like other shops on the block, there was a refrigerator and a couple of tables out front. When they walked up, an old man with messy hair and sleepy eyes asked, “Coca?”

Yong Kyu nodded. He and Stapley sat side-by-side facing the street and sipped cans of Coke.

“The lease is for one month. It’ll be hard to extend it.”

Stapley looked sullen, then said, “All right. I understand the position you guys are in. It’ll be awkward for Leon, too. Da Nang is off-limits for him, so I guess he won’t be able to visit that often.”

“You shouldn’t see each other again. Headquarters knows you are close and may expect him to contact you.”

“All right. I’ll do anything to get on board a neutral country ship.”

Yong Kyu waved his finger and said, “Well . . . you still wouldn’t be out of the woods then. Once you reached port, if you don’t have the right connections you could be handed straight over to the US embassy.”

“What about getting help in Saigon?”

“I’ve checked that out already. There are quite a few ships helping out AWOLs. There are quite a number of AWOLs from all over the country gathering down there. Why not try Saigon? Anyway, you still have plenty of time.”

Stapley seemed far more dispirited than he had been the night before. His gloomy face was hanging low and he went on spinning the empty Coke can in his hands. Toi’s mercury-coated silver sunglasses came into view. With a quick glance at his wristwatch, he sat down in front of the two men.

“Sorry I’m a little late.”

“Say hello. Stapley, this is Toi.”

With Yong Kyu’s introduction, they shook hands.

“Where is it?”

“Downtown.”

“I know that. Where downtown?”

“On the old market road, not far from my place.”

They got into the van with Stapley in the back seat and crossed the bridge by the smokestack.

“How did you find this place?”

Toi let out a whistle as he steered. “I had a hell of a time finding it. The prior tenant was a technician from India. I know the landlord.”

“And rent-free, you said?”

“Right, instead . . .” Toi turned around and looked at Stapley, “instead he wants to cut a deal for some of the stuff coming out of Turen.”

“I suppose that may have been your idea, too?”

“Of course. All I have to do is deliver a few boxes at a time to him before we deposit the goods in the conex. That’s his only condition. And it’s only as long as Stapley stays there. The man said he also knows a way for a man to sneak out of Da Nang.”

“Which road?” Stapley asked.

“By sea,” Toi said, pointing off to the right.

“Shit, might as well go by air,” muttered Stapley.

But Toi said confidently, “A Vietnamese navy ship runs up here once a month from Nha Trang. The landlord’s son is a navy officer.”

“But what about from Nha Trang?”

“There are lots of vessels that run from Nha Trang to Saigon; the officer will set something up.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand piasters, and then another five thousand when you get to Saigon.”

“What do you say?” Yong Kyu asked, looking back at Stapley.

“Sounds good enough.”

The van slowly crawled along the old market road. As usual, the area was bustling with merchants. It was not an area where you were likely to see foreign soldiers in uniform. A place, Yog Kyu thought, where headquarters would be unlikely to search for an AWOL. But if Stapley were to be out wandering the streets, somebody would eventually notice him. They headed into a back alley where miscellaneous American goods were for sale. They went inside a two-story house that had all its windows shuttered. A man sitting in the hall got up to greet them.

“He doesn’t speak English,” Toi said.

“That’s going to be a problem,” Stapley said, concerned.

“He knows simple phrases,” Toi said. “I’ll drop in every two or three days. Besides, he’ll call me if anything comes up.”

The man led them up a set of squeaky stairs. He opened a door. The room inside was dark. He crossed the room and opened the shutters. Immediately the room became bright, and they saw that the room was directly visible to all the houses across the alley.

“Better keep the shutters closed,” Stapley murmured.

“After we’re gone, that’s fine, but for now you should familiarize yourself with the layout.”

One bed right under the window, an empty bucket and a basin next to the door, two wooden chairs, a small desk like you would find in a schoolroom—those were the furnishings.

Yong Kyu took out his notebook and a pen. “Tell me what you need,” he said to Stapley.

“A coffee pot and a kettle, a few cups, a plate, silverware, also a fan if I’m to be cooped up here all day long, and a little refrigerator . . .” Then Stapley paused and waved both hands as if suddenly struck by some revelation. “Forget it. I’m on the run. What the hell do I need those things for?”

Toi exchanged a few words with the landlord and then said, “He will lend you a hotplate. You can warm up C-rations for meals. He said he’s also got a coffee pot, cups, and plates from the kitchen that you can use.”

“Thank you,” Stapley said as he flopped down on the iron bed with metal springs. “Now I can dream about Saigon.”

Yong Kyu and Toi left him there with a simple good-bye and followed the owner down the steps. They heard Stapley shout from upstairs, “Tell Leon he’s going to win that bet!”

At around two o’clock, the usual hour for siesta at Nguyen Cuong Trading Company, Thach came by the warehouse as promised to see Pham Minh.

“Everything all right?”

He grinned at Minh as he sat on top of the desk across from him. Heat was pouring in through the open window. Thach gazed outside as he spoke.

“On my way over I submitted a report on the successful outcome of the training exercise by the reinforcement contingents of the 434th Special Action Group. Confirmation of the operation results came through the administrative agent in Somdomeh district, and I then passed the report up the chain of command. Cells A, B, and C each executed their missions superbly. In particular, the initiative of cell A in distributing leaflets among day laborers working on the American base was commendable. Since that was not specifically called for in their orders, the administrative agent criticized cell A, but the district committee’s opinion was different. They had conducted sufficient advance surveys and dry runs, and the cell members waited until the workers had been searched and were milling outside the gates of the base before covering the streets and alleys along their path with leaflets. Even more impressive is that they tried to use the young cigarette peddlers and shoeshine boys from the nearby refugee camps to hand out the leaflets.”

“The administrative agent’s criticism was warranted, perhaps? Seems very risky.”

“No, not necessarily,” Thach said, shaking his finger. “Urban guerrillas conducting small-scale operations at the cell level can’t carry out effective missions if they limit themselves to only following orders handed down by the higher command. The daring and imaginative steps taken by cell A deserve high praise. First of all, the group they brilliantly singled out was the best available to target in Somdomeh. Tell me, as you learned in Atwat, what are our targets?”

“The imperialist forces and their facilities.”

“You see? That cell A selected Vietnamese laborers working on the American base as their target for leafleting was a very well calculated decision. We know only too well that those workers, in order to survive, go to the US military barracks every day and do all sorts of menial work from cleaning garbage to washing clothes and so on. It may be that some of these men reduced to servitude are given petty gifts by the American soldiers like a bit of cash or a lump of meat, and so they might momentarily forget who’s the enemy and who’s responsible for the miserable state of their motherland.

“On the other hand, there may be others who, though they are reduced to such lowly work for the sake of their families, carry a deep-seeded hatred of the US Imprinting on their minds the existence of the NLF is one of our key goals. Even if we don’t succeed in recruiting them, if we can just convince them to believe in our cause, it is as much a victory as if we had overrun and occupied an enemy base. And, after getting the young boys around the base gate to hand out the leaflets, they dissolved into the crowd and monitored their performance, which was even more remarkable.

“Mass provocation is most successful when it involves spontaneity of the masses themselves. Those young boys were not in any danger, of course, even if they had gotten arrested by the police or by ARVN forces. It has happened before, in fact. The boys have no idea about the contents of the leaflets—they just say that a grown-up had given them some money to distribute them. The police have no choice but to let them go. In this case, the crowd stood behind a boy who was apprehended just as he was finishing handing out leaflets. According to cell A, it took about thirty minutes for the police to appear on the scene. You see, most local people would not think of reporting such things to the police.

“Ultimately, the purpose of the training exercise lies in nurturing one’s ability to cope with unexpected contingencies. Urban guerrillas always have to make snap decisions.”

After listening to Nguyen Thach’s quiet but impassioned voice, Minh felt a burning sensation surging up in his throat. He let out a long deep breath. Thach frowned slightly. “Do you, Comrade Pham Minh, disagree with what I’ve said?”

“Oh, no, sir. I just feel so frustrated.”

“Frustrated?”

“Because I’m playing no useful role in operations, just acting as a warehouse keeper.”

Thach’s face grew stern as he peered straight into Minh’s eyes.

“This mission is important. Today we have two assignments to carry out. We have to receive the firearms for the reinforcement contingent in the Third Special District and see that they’re delivered without the slightest hitch. And then you need to make contact with Kiem.”

“But I don’t know him, sir.”

“Kiem works in the same office as your brother, right? I’m sure you can find a way to be introduced to him.”

“I’ll try.”

Thach stood up. “You had lunch?”

“Yes, I ate in the office.”

“Then let’s call the foreman in here. I’ll go ahead and wait for you at the Chrysanthemum Pub.”

As the siesta period ended, activity was resuming at the intercity bus terminal. Passengers were loading their luggage and boxes onto the roof racks of the thirty-seat buses. Three-wheeler motorized carts were zipping through the crowd in the old market and ferrying all sorts of goods here and there. The big freight trucks bound for distant destinations had long since pulled out in the coolness of dawn. Afternoon was the time for the trucks headed for Hue, Hoi An, and Tam Ky to depart. Inbound vehicles from the highlands wouldn’t be arriving at the terminal until evening.

Nguyen Thach entered the pub through the back door, strode through the kitchen and, as always, took a seat in the very back of the place. Lunchtime was over and there were no customers. Only tea was served until dinner. After he sat down in the compartment and pulled the bead curtains, a young waiter brought him a pot of green tea.

“Welcome, Uncle.”

Thach casually nodded to the youth and asked, “Has he come?”

“Yes, sir. He’s outside, over there.”

“Show him in.”

Thach poured out a little tea into a cup and stirred it a few times to warm the cup before filling it. As he carefully poured out the tea, he heard a low voice.

“Comrade Nguyen, it’s been a long time.”

A youth in ARVN uniform with a sergeant’s insignia on his shoulder greeted him, awkwardly touching the brim of his hat with his right hand.

“Have a seat. Everything’s in order across the river, I hope?”

“We’re in a hell of a fix, sir.”

“That same old story still? How’s Comrade Banh Hao?”

The young man removed his hat and waved it like a fan in front of his chest to generate a little breeze.

“Same as ever. Buying goods is getting more and more difficult, sir.”

“I understand tax collection is going fairly well.”

“Money’s not the problem. Lately, even the government army is steering clear of dangerous dealings. Firearms are coming in steadily, but the problem is the ammunition and bombs. There are some bombs still coming down the Ho Chi Minh Trail, but the quantities are still not enough. With the shortage, we must supply without fail the bombs to be used in Quang Nam Province.”

Nguyen Thach was well aware that the operations conducted in Da Nang were crucial. The .61 caliber mortar rounds of the US forces could readily be used in larger bore mortars, and 3.5 inch rockets could also be used as is in Chinese launchers. Anyway, most of the weapons used by the local guerrillas were American-made, and the NLF’s fundamental principle was to make use of enemy hardware and ammunition as much as possible.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand, though. Supplies of C-rations and small arms ammo keep falling off.”

“There’s a reason for that. A strong wind is now whirling in the Da Nang black market. Prospects aren’t at all gloomy for us, either.”

“What is it?”

“The phoenix hamlets project. Rice, seed, fertilizer, cattle and all sorts of construction materials have begun to pour out. They’re already flowing into cities all over Quang Nam and I’m sure they’re heading to other provinces, too. It’s only natural that business in the market tends to focus upon those transactions.”

“We’re dealing with units of the government forces,” said the agent from the market across the river in the shadow of the smokestack, cocking his head.

“Maybe the problem is with the middlemen. I bet they are getting their share of this new unlimited flow of materials and are selling it in the markets. No need now for them to expose themselves to risky dealings.”

“Probably a passing phenomenon. Don’t people still say that you can even buy disassembled tanks and helicopters in the Da Nang black market?”

Nguyen Thach beamed and said playfully, “Business has already entered a new phase. We’re talking enormous quantities now.”

“How much?”

“I’m told about three hundred hamlets are to be created. New settlements with from fifty to one hundred houses each are already under construction. In Quang Nam Province alone, there will be three hundred such new settlements.”

“Three, three hundred?” The agent seemed shocked.

“Doesn’t it mean that NLF-controlled zones will be diminished and local fighters will lose their cover?”

“No . . . just the opposite. Within three months we’ll be controlling all the phoenix hamlets, just as we did with the strategic hamlets before. The peasants will learn to think of the hamlets as encampments on the American or Saigon side. The people will never be pried away from us. What’s more, we should keep in mind the fact that each hamlet is to have an armed militia. The enemy is helping us by giving the local people military training as well as guns and ammunition.”

The sergeant swallowed his tea. “It’s an immense, rich lode of ore to mine!”

“It is. Still, mines and detonators, mortar shells and rifle cartridges, the latest model US automatic weapons, those are problems we’ll have to solve for ourselves.”

“By then we’ll have secured heavier firepower. I expect ammunition supplies will increase to reflect the new manpower.”

“Yes, so don’t be moaning and groaning too loudly. From now on we won’t have time to blink. First things first, right? I’ve received orders to supply armaments for the reinforcements. I hope you’re ready.”

The agent took out a piece of paper from his pocket and read it. “Subject: Weapon requisition for Fourth Company of 434th Special Action Group in the Third Special District. Five submachine guns, three M2 carbines, four .45 pistols, and three .38 revolvers. That’s all, sir. Hand grenades, plastics and detonators will be supplied later, when required for planned missions.”

“Those items should be furnished by them on their own. Any luck with a C79 rocket launcher?”

“We managed to buy a couple, but we sent them to the Quang Ngai District first.”

“We’ve got to try harder to get hold of the newer model American equipment.”

“The crucial thing,” the agent said, “is to centralize the supply channel. We’ll be looking forward to help from the new cell member operating in the old Le Loi market. As for current supplies, we’ve been able to keep a flow along the Thu Bon River. By the way, how is the new man? Is he reliable?”

“Not only is he reliable, he’s got all kinds of excellent connections. Best of all, he’s out on active duty, just like you, not a barracks man. He’s enlisted in the air force, assigned to the American air base in Da Nang. His background is as solid as they come. His older brother is none other than the adjutant to General Liam.”

“You mean Major Pham Quyen? Comrade Banh Hao will be surprised. Is the district council also aware of this?”

“Yes, they have the details. When he volunteered to join the NLF, the recruiting officer at Hue University included the details on his recommendation and submitted the report to higher authorities.”

The waiter stuck his face inside the bead curtain. “Mr. Pham Minh has arrived, sir.”

“Send him back here.”

As he walked inside, Minh shot a wary glance at the sergeant in ARVN uniform.

“Say hello,” Thach said. “This here is the army and you, Comrade, are the air force, aren’t you? So that puts the two of you on the same side.”

The sergeant held out his hand to Pham Minh.

“Comrade Pham Minh, pleased to meet you. My name is Le Muong Panh, I work down in the smokestack market.”

Minh felt shy as he grasped the tip of the hand of the sergeant who looked to be five or six years his senior.

“I am Pham Minh.”

“Graduate of the military training course at Atwat?”

“Yes, I am.”

“You’re from the North, I think?” said Nguyen Thach.

“That’s right, from Dong Hoi training camp.”

Le Muong Panh nodded slowly as if it were only natural. Dong Hoi was in operation even before the American intervention, which would make him a veteran among the guerrillas. He must have spent at least five years walking the thin line between life and death in the jungle and the city. Minh remembered that his friend Tanh, who had recruited him and was now fighting in the Second Special District up in Hue, also was from Dong Hoi.

“I need your guidance in many ways, sir,” Minh said earnestly.

Thach picked up Le’s things and handed them to Minh. “Let’s get this job done quickly. Comrade Pham, cross the river with Comrade Le and bring the goods over here. You can leave them in the warehouse.”

“Now, sir?”

“Yes. You’ll be going to the store run by Comrade Banh Hao often. Be a good partner for Comrade Le.”

The three men exited the pub through the front door. Nguyen Thach j scanned the street and soon a man in a collarless shirt and khaki shorts ran toward him. He was chewing on a sweet rice cake wrapped in a banana leaf.

“You have a car?”

“Didn’t you bring your van, sir?”

“A three-wheeler is probably better.”

Considering the nature of the goods to be transported, Thach thought it would be advisable to be inconspicuous. A van would be expected for moving a refrigerator or electric appliances, but grain and vegetables would be more likely to be carried on a three-wheeler. Thach signaled with his eyes to Le and Minh.

“Hurry up. Comrade Pham, bring the goods back and wait for me before leaving the office for the day.”

Minh and Le squeezed themselves into the back of the three-wheeler. It rumbled down along the shore. The driver mumbled something to Le, food still in his mouth.

“I’ve seen him only from a distance, and today was the first time I met him.”

“Ah, is that right?” muttered Le.

Pham exchanged a nod with the driver as the latter turned to take a quick look at him.

“He’s been in charge of transportation, aiding Comrade Nguyen for a long time,” Le said to Pham Minh. “I was over in Pleiku last week, and things have quieted down a bit.”

The three-wheeler crossed the bridge, turned left toward the US forces headquarters, and then drove on for some time on the wide highway to Bai Bang. Then they passed by the ARVN barracks and turned up into a working class residential area. On either side of the alleys stood small houses of similar sizes, and little shops were lining the main street. They pulled midway up a long block of shops and stopped in front of a large rice dealership.

Le entered the store first. Sacks of American AID grain and bushels of government grain stamped with official seals were stacked up to the ceiling. On the floor was a huge wicker basket full of rice, a squarish gourd used as a measure, and containers of barley, wheat flour, and other assorted grain. A couple of workmen moved aside to allow them to pass.

Minh followed Le inside the store. As they pushed open a side door, they came to a bigger warehouse, passed through it, then emerged into a yard. The yard was small, but it had palm trees, a few evergreens, and a line of flowerpots. Facing them was a house, with a door in the center and two wide glass windows on either side. A man was standing behind one of the windows with his arms behind his back, watching the two young men as they crossed the yard. The room inside the house was the office for the store. It had two desks, a sofa and a chair, and a steel cabinet upon which was pasted a map of downtown Da Nang.

“Sir, this is Mr. Pham Minh from the Nguyen Cuong Company.”

Banh’s hair was grayish, but the deep wrinkles on his cheeks and forehead gave more of an impression of strong will than of the feebleness of age. He was clad in Mack pants and a white cotton shirt.

“Welcome.”

He scanned Minh with gentle but sharp eyes.

“Supply operations are of the greatest importance for reinforcing our combat power on the front lines and for sustaining our struggle. The smokestack area and the Le Loi area should complement each other’s strengths and through cooperation fill the requisitions of the district council without any exceptions. Drop by here often in the future.”

Le and Minh returned to the warehouse. Le brought out a bundle wrapped up in an army poncho. When they cut the nylon cord and opened it, they saw cold black gun barrels.

“We’ll have to disassemble the submachine guns and carbines. Let’s get to work,” Le said.

The two of them skillfully took apart the guns. Removing empty clips and loose ammunition from another bundle, Le said, “Bring me those rice sacks over there.”

Minh realized what he was planning to do. They poured out just the right amount of rice and put the knocked-down guns, clips, and cartridges in with the rice, then resealed the bags with a stapler. The pistols were easier to bury. After finishing the packing, they sat on the rice bags and rested for a while. Le offered a cigarette and Minh lit Le’s for him. Le removed his army uniform and changed into light Vietnamese-style pants.

“If you’re a sergeant, you could’ve been discharged before now, couldn’t you?” Minh asked and Le nodded.

“Yes, but active duty is more convenient for my work. I can walk onto ARVN facilities at any time, and can also drop in at the army PX to talk a little business.”

“What’s your unit?”

“Veteran’s affairs office. Costs me three thousand piasters a month.”

“Cheaper than mine, I pay five thousand a month for duty expense.”

“Well, that’s . . .” Le let out a self-derisive laugh. “I’m a higher rank than you, aren’t I?”

Minh looked around the warehouse, which was much smaller than Nguyen Cuong’s. “Is this the whole place?”

Minh’s question implied that the warehouse was far too small to be a major node of the NLF supply network for the entire central region of Vietnam. Le also looked around the place. “This place? Well, it’s a midpoint. We always go through three points. Regardless of time and place, the NLF always receives voluntary support from the people. There are lots of small traders from the smokestack down through Somdomeh to the Thu Bon River. Many of them are collecting guns and war supplies to be handed over to us. Of course, there are also many connections with the ARVN forces, which we handle directly. From now on you, Comrade Pham, will gradually learn about how our work proceeds. On our side, we already have great expectations for your innovative new enterprise across the river.”

Le stepped on the cigarette butt and got to his feet.

“Now, let’s get this stuff loaded.”

The two men hoisted the rice sacks on their shoulders and loaded them in the back of the three-wheeler. The six sacks filled up the backseat, causing the springs to hit bottom.

“Is this load going to cause problems?” Le asked the driver.

“Don’t worry, sir. Once I even had five people crammed in the backseat there.”

Pham Minh barely managed to squeeze himself in the front beside the driver’s seat.

“So long,” Le said.