Over the next few months Tâm developed a routine. She grew more comfortable with the truck, and it became her home. She kept a sleeping mat and change of clothes in the bed of the truck along with her newly purchased American soap. Her assignments took her from Saigon to the tunnels, then to points along the Hồ Chí Minh Trail. Sometimes she was part of a convoy; sometimes she drove alone.
The word “trail” was a misnomer. It consisted of nearly 20,000 kilometers of interconnected roads, footpaths, and riverways that had connected North and South Vietnam for centuries. Parts of it wound through Laos and Cambodia. Hanoi had expanded the trail several times. In 1965 engineers using Soviet and Chinese machinery widened the web of jungle footpaths into flat roads and strengthened bridges to support heavy trucks. The North Vietnamese taught everyone how to camouflage themselves and their vehicles while moving along the roads. In convoys that traveled at night, more than ninety tons of supplies were taken south to the Communist fighters every day. Tâm slept during the day.
North Vietnam had also built way stations to repair and maintain both the trail and trucks. Refueling facilities were located at every third to fifth station. As Đắc had promised, Tâm bumped into other drivers at these outposts, where they traded war news and gossip and discussed truck maintenance. Her truck had a diesel engine, and she noticed that sometimes, when it was hot, the motor kept running even after she turned it off. She learned it wasn’t uncommon and was called dieseling. Every driver seemed to have a different solution. She tried them all, but mostly she learned to live with it. She learned how to change a tire, what to do if the gears started to slip, and how to judge when the brakes needed replacement.
Đắc was right about the enemy’s “war on trucks.” By 1969, America boasted it had destroyed more than 9,000 trucks on the Hồ Chí Minh Trail. The North Vietnamese acquired more trucks and deployed sophisticated antiaircraft artillery along the trail to protect them. The net result was that the U.S. couldn’t stop the North from delivering supplies to the Southern Communists, and, despite a steady rain of bombs, supply levels steadily increased. So did the number of troops. At the peak of the fighting, North Vietnamese Army regulars traveling the trail poured into South Vietnam at the rate of 20,000 fighters per month.
All of which made driving the trail treacherous. Tâm was relieved when she was not assigned to a convoy. Her truck wasn’t nimble, but compared to a line of trucks, she had more options when she was alone. She could swerve off road and race into the bush for cover.
At the beginning of September 1969, Hồ Chí Minh died from a heart attack. It wasn’t a surprise; his health had declined over the years, and he had given up his leadership role. Even so, North Vietnam declared a week of mourning and told its troops to turn their grief at Bác Hồ’s death into revolutionary activities to defeat the U.S. and liberate South Vietnam. The battles and the bombings raged on.
When the dry season began Tâm was assigned to drive a dozen North Vietnamese troops from the trail to the Cu Chi tunnels. When she picked them up, she was surprised to see they were women. They called themselves part of the Long Hair Army. Most were from the mountainous area in northwest Vietnam, and they seemed to know each other well. Armed with a patchwork of Soviet and old German antiaircraft guns and two portable missile launchers, they squeezed into the bed of the truck, their bulky weapons taking up most of the space. The woman who appeared to be their leader asked if she could ride up front with Tâm.
Tâm nodded. “But there could be enemy bombing runs. They usually happen at night. If they do, I will take immediate evasive action.”
The woman smiled. “I expect nothing less.”
Tâm grinned back. Apparently bomb blasts did not frighten this soldier.
“I am Lieutenant Diệp Hồng Bảo.”
“Hồng Bảo. Great Protection. That is fitting. I am—” She was about to say “Biên,” but something made her change her mind. She blurted out, “I am Trang Tâm.”
“Solemn Heart.” She appraised Tâm. “Why is that?”
Tâm shrugged.
Bảo was small and slim. Then again, Tâm had never seen a plump Vietnamese woman except for aunties and grandmothers. Bảo’s dark eyes, wider than most, sparkled with a cheerful, sunny cast, unlike those of other soldiers. Most weren’t much older than she, and their expressions were either frightened or veiled with a smug arrogance Tâm knew was feigned. When Bảo smiled, though, Tâm felt lighter. It was a feeling, she realized as she headed to the back of the truck, akin to joy.
“Help me with the tarp?” Tâm asked.
Bảo nodded, and they stretched the cover over the bed of the truck to conceal the women. Before she tied it down Tâm explained to the soldiers that the ride might be rocky if there were bombing runs.
“What should they do?” Bảo asked on behalf of her charges.
Tâm inclined her head. “Just hang on. And pray.” But she smiled when she said it.
She went back to the front and climbed into the driver’s seat. As Bảo jumped up on the passenger side, the damp scent of a freshwater river on Bảo’s uniform overwhelmed Tâm. Her mouth dropped open. “You smell like the Mekong.”
Bảo looked over. “We came down the trail through Cambodia. We slept on its banks for two nights.”
Before the Mekong River flows into South Vietnam, it winds through Laos, then Cambodia, essentially splitting the country in half. The smell unleashed in Tâm a powerful yearning for her home and childhood. For the days when she trudged home from school to help her father plant vegetables. Or washed their clothing with Mai and her mother in the river. Or fed Sáng his bottle when he fussed. That a simple scent could evoke the past in such rich detail was unsettling. She thought she’d locked her past in a remote, unreachable place, but now it seemed to have escaped to haunt her.
“I grew up on the Mekong.” She paused. “In the South.”
“Oh? What village?”
Tâm paused for a long time, then shook her head. “It’s not there anymore. The Americans destroyed it.”
Bảo shut her eyes tight, but Tâm had the strange sensation that Bảo felt her sorrow through her closed lids. And when she opened them again, Bảo didn’t appear to be the least surprised that Tâm knew it.
Tâm took a roundabout route to get to the tunnels. Fortunately, the journey was without incident. Tâm and Bảo chatted the entire way. Bảo herded goats and sheep on the mountains in North Vietnam. She had four siblings, but they were too young to join the NVA. She was the only one in her family who could read and write, and she took that responsibility seriously. The more she learned about Hồ Chí Minh and his promises, the more she wanted to help achieve them. That was why she’d joined the army and rose to the rank of lieutenant. She went wherever she was assigned. They had been protecting other troops along the trail with antiaircraft activity; now they were assigned to shoot down American B-52s that were carpet-bombing the tunnels and the adjacent area controlled by the Communists, called the Iron Triangle.
“Have you been through the tunnels before?” Tâm asked.
“Oh yes. Several times. Often, now that the Americans are carpet-bombing the area. This time we expect to camp in the tunnels for a few weeks, perhaps months. We will come out only at night for antiaircraft action. At some point we will head down to the Iron Triangle to shoot down aircraft near the Bien Hoa Air Base.”
“You have been there before as well?”
Bảo nodded. “During Tết. The Tết Offensive was planned in the tunnels, you know.”
Tâm replied with a wry smile.
“Why do you smile?”
“I first came to Saigon soon after Tết. My sister and I stayed in the Cholon refugee camp. The NVA sent mortars and missiles and bombs in our direction. It might have been you who fired those mortars.”
Bảo shot Tâm a look that was equally compassionate and sad. “If that is so, I am glad we missed our target.”
A rush of heat flew up Tâm’s spine. She knew her cheeks were red.
“Tell me about you, Tâm.”
Tâm let out a breath and began. She told Bảo about her father, her sister, the prince that had been Sáng. What she saw and felt when the Americans destroyed their village. She talked about her sister’s obstinacy and how they had quarreled. Bảo didn’t interrupt but seemed to be listening intently. Tâm realized she’d never opened up like this to anyone. She didn’t want the journey to end.