When the Japanese occupied Vietnam during World War II, a platoon of soldiers had seized the village. Those who stayed wanted easier access from the river. So they supervised the construction of a dock and steps leading from the river’s edge up a hill. The steps ended at the dusty road leading into the village. Tâm and Mai’s father had been conscripted to build the dock and steps in his teens, and his back bore the scars of beatings, an indispensable tool of Japanese brutality. Despite their harsh treatment, though, most of the villagers were pleased when the steps were finished. Outsiders could now be spotted as they approached, and villagers could determine whether they were friend or foe.
Yet it was still possible to climb the hill a dozen yards north of the dock. Under cover of cashew bushes, papaya, and jackfruit trees, one could secretly enter the village at its midpoint. Tâm and Mai took that route. As they hiked up the hill, a cacophony of sounds washed over them. Somewhere far above was a distant thwup of helicopter blades. On the ground, screams of terror. The occasional crack-spit of gunshots. The yelp of a dog that suddenly stopped. The squeal of a pig. Mechanical voices, as if someone was talking on a radio. And above it all, the thick, flat voices of men bellowing in what Tâm knew was English.
She froze. Americans. How had they found their tiny village? Not by water; Tâm and Mai would have seen them. But the land route was overgrown with dense forest and bush, impenetrable in some spots. Perhaps they came that way.
She worried about the helicopters. She’d heard how the U.S. dropped powerful bombs that erupted into fire, scorching everything on the ground. When the last flame was extinguished, the Vietnamese were left with barren fields and poisoned land unable to grow anything. The government said this was the only way to force the North and Viet Cong into the open, to halt their guerrilla war. She’d heard, too, that Americans liked to execute the VC they found, set fire to their villages, then force the inhabitants to relocate into squalid camps near Saigon. Tâm blinked fast, trying to suppress her rising fear.
Slowly, silently, she led Mai through the papaya trees. She stopped before they emerged from the bush and carefully pulled aside the fronds of a jackfruit tree. In front of her was the village square, an expanse of dirt studded with rocks where communal events, including weddings, births, and funerals, were celebrated.
Now, though, Tâm stared at chaos. There had to be more than twenty GIs in camouflage uniforms and helmets, rifles slung across their shoulders or in their hands. Some hoisted long, thick weapons much larger than rifles, but she didn’t know what they were. Half a dozen soldiers moved from house to house, dragging villagers, their hands high in the air.
“Any VC in here? You VC?” they shouted in primitive Vietnamese. When the villagers frantically shook their heads, the GIs prodded them with their rifles toward the village square. “We heard there’s a nest of enemy gooks in this hamlet,” they replied in English. “Gotta make sure.” Tâm didn’t understand what they were saying, but she couldn’t mistake their fury and vindictive tone.
Other soldiers poured gasoline on the thatched roofs of the now empty huts. Still others flicked their lighters and laughed when homes went up in flames.
Most of the villagers appeared to be terrified. The wife of a rice farmer planted herself at the entrance to her hut, shrieking and gesturing at the soldiers. She tried to explain that they had the wrong village. That they were simple farmers and fishermen with no interest in war. Of course, the Americans didn’t understand, and barked orders in reply. When she refused to move, two soldiers dragged her to the square and shoved her to the ground.
About a dozen villagers, choking on the smoke, huddled in the square, heads between their knees, as if averting their faces would somehow mitigate the disaster. A soldier went back to the woman’s hut, flipped his lighter, and touched the flame to her thatched roof. When it caught, he gestured to the villagers on the square, shouting “Lookie here. Roasted gook for lunch!” Some of the other soldiers guffawed. Again, Tâm didn’t understand, but she watched flames devour the hut as if they were starving.
From their perch behind the trees, Tâm looked left and right. Smoke curled up in rolls. Soot darkened the sky. The air tasted acrid and sour, and the heat from the fires intensified. She counted five homes on fire, but their own home, thirty meters away, wasn’t visible, and she couldn’t tell if it was on fire.
The villagers on the square wailed as another house went up. Some choked on the smoke and the overpowering smell of gasoline. Others covered their faces with their hands. Tâm searched for their family. Mai was doing the same because she whispered, “I don’t see Mama and Papa. Or Sáng. Where are they?”
“Maybe they escaped,” Tâm whispered back.
Suddenly Mai grabbed Tâm’s arm. “Look!” she said in a panicky whisper. She pointed past the square. Tâm followed her gaze.
Not far away was a mound of dead dogs, pigs, and even the calf born just two weeks ago. Their corpses, fresh and still bloody, dispensed a coppery, rancid smell that mixed with the gasoline. That was the source of the gunshots. The Americans were killing their animals. Flies were already swarming and settled on their hides. Tâm gagged, nausea rising in her throat. She swallowed to push it down.
Mai started to tremble. Tâm put an arm around her sister and let her lean against her for a moment, then straightened up. “We must be strong. We need to find Mama and Papa.”
“How? We can’t go home. They’ll see us.”
“Let me think.”
Mai shook her head and pointed. “We can go around the path.” A dirt path a few meters away ran along the back of a dozen huts, including theirs. But Mai wasn’t as careful as Tâm. She would make noise or stumble, alerting the soldiers to her presence.
Tâm shook her head. “No. You stay here. I’ll go.”
Mai clutched her sister. “Don’t leave me alone. Please, Chị Tâm!”
Tâm bit her lip. “Go back into the bush. You’ll be safe there. Stay there until I come back.”
“But I—I’m frightened. Stay with me, Chị Tâm.”
“Be brave. I will be back. I swear it.”
Tears filled Mai’s eyes. “I don’t . . . I can’t.”
Tâm raised a finger to her lips. She pointed to a cashew bush. “Hide behind that. But don’t cry. They may hear you.”