For the Sake of All Living Things (47 page)

For a week rumors had crisscrossed the village of a new NVA armored unit encamped in the jungle to the north. Then Heng and Khieng had come in on pass, had strutted about flashing their new rifles at the younger boys and bragging about the tank crews whom they supported. The crews were all young women from North Viet Nam, they said. Women trained at the Soviet armor school in Odessa on the north shore of the Black Sea. With them, though not loggered together, were two batteries of 130mm self-propelled long-range artillery guns. An image flickered behind Chhuon’s eyes, a fantasy of the bombs destroying the tanks. The thought scared him. Anything which could so shake the ground, which could so quake mother earth as the bombers, had to be evil.

Chhuon whispered a prayer, then quietly he vowed, “I will become enlightened for the sake of all living things.” Then he beseeched the Blessed One, “What has happened to my country? What will happen to my people?”

At Ny Non Chan’s, before Chhuon was able to utter the new contribution order, Chan blurted, “We have great trouble.”

“We always have great trouble.” Chhuon attempted to avoid the embarrassment of not knowing.

“New trouble. Aiee!” Chan pulled Chhuon close. He bowed his head, shook in empathy. “A Viet Namese soldier,” he blurted. “He’s been caught consorting with...by force.”

“Who?”

“Their guards have him. There’s talk of denouncing him.”

“Who did he pluck?”

“She’s a good woman. I’m certain it was by force.”

“Who?” Chhuon pushed Chan’s hands from his own.

“I cannot believe she would bed them for rice. She cannot be that desperate.”

“Brother”—Chhuon grabbed Chan firmly—“tell me who you are speaking of.”

Chan avoided Chhuon’s eyes. Then he mumbled, “Ry. Your cousin’s wife.”

For a long moment Chhuon said nothing. Then, quietly, firmly, he passed on the contribution order. “That,” Chhuon added, “is great trouble.”

“The village can’t last until harvest. If...if we contribute...a thousand kilos...more than a week’s food for everyone...”

Suddenly a shot cracked. Chhuon whipped around, stared, then spat, “Come!”

The two men ran from the house, down the alley between the old homes of the Ny family, across the village center toward the wat. Before them a crowd of forty or fifty had formed about a North Viet Namese jeep. Up and down, the village street was lined with foreign soldiers. Chhuon squirmed into the mob, to the front. “Serves him right,” he heard several men say as he passed. Before him, lifeless, facedown in the mud, lay an NVA soldier. The shot had evidently been fired into his skull from behind as he’d knelt with his hands tied behind his back. Chhuon raised his eyes to the officer standing in the vehicle. The Khmer crowd increased to a hundred.

“We have told you,” the soldier said in perfect Khmer, “that under Prince Sihanouk there is no threat of rape or looting. Your village is protected. Our soldiers must set an example of perfect order and discipline. The Alliance of Khmer and Viet Namese shall break old barriers and build new trust.”

“Did he really rape her?” Chhuon heard a villager ask.

“It makes no difference, eh?” a second responded. “It’s only important to show how we are protected.”

“Ah, Uncle.” Hang Tung’s voice came softly over Chhuon’s shoulder. “You see how they honor us by punishing one of their own who transgresses.” Chhuon turned toward Hang. Behind him Ny Non Chan’s face distorted in an eerie smile. Chhuon shut his eyes. He attempted to repeat the vow—I will become enlightened...but the demon flared, exploding in his mind, and Chan’s eerie smile repeated on Chhuon’s face. Then Hang Tung’s voice penetrated his ears and sped through the cables. “You’ve arranged for the rice?”

Two weeks passed. In the fields, in the depleted market, at the wat, wherever citizens of Phum Sath Din met publicly, talk was about the NVA having killed one of their own to protect the village. No one spoke of Ry. No one spoke of the rice contribution, knowing a complaint, overheard, could mean punishment. In private they worried about the food stores. The harvest would be late because of the delayed start of the monsoons, and most stores had been confiscated. “A thousand kilos is not much.” Hang Tung smiled for Chhuon. “In a village this large, why, a thousand is nothing.”

“That was not the first thousand,” Chhuon had answered, smiling, acting, keeping it light. “Nor the second or the third,” he added, almost laughing.

“You know these peasants,” Hang Tung said. “They have rice hidden everywhere. The family bunkers are full.”

“I think you overestimate, Nephew. Only the old families had extra and they shared it with the new people. And the army. Some people have taken to eating morning-glory greens.”

“They’re very good. Very good for you. People should eat more greens.”

“They need rice, too,” Chhuon said flatly, dropping the pretext of amiability.

“The army needs rice,” Hang Tung snapped. “If COKA says one thousand kilos or ten thousand kilos or one hundred thousand kilos, the village will pay. In the meantime, tell them to plant more. You’re the agronomist. How late can late-season be planted?”

“There’s no paddy space left. The yuons...” Chhuon halted. He glanced at Hang Tung. The boy smirked. “Our brothers from across the border have, rightly so, cordoned off all the far paddies. Those close by are...”

“And maize?”

“The roadways are all...”

“And vegetables?”

“Yes. Every family has a...”

“You see. There’s enough. Morning-glory greens. Indeed! Perhaps the orchards should be cut to make room...”

“The orchards! Never!”

“Uncle!”

Pressure from outside elements continued to be paramount in Cambodia. By midsummer U.S. domestic and political reaction to its own incursion had assured the North Viet Namese of their secure position throughout Indochina. In the outskirts of Kratie, at the new COSVN headquarters, the North Viet Namese began a slow, systematic emasculation of the Provisional Revolutionary Government of the National Liberation Front. The process was subtle, combining mild criticism sessions with reeducation—yet, ironically, because of the successes of the Allied incursion, the Southern rebel leadership was essentially imprisoned deep in Cambodia by the Northerners, and at a substantial distance from the war in the South. This allowed the North Viet Namese to substitute their own cadremen for Southerners who resisted reeducation. New-thought was to supplant old; socialist nationalism gave way to strict Northern Marxism; the petit bourgeois was purged; the proletariat served. To Hanoi, America’s withdrawal meant the superfluous baggage of the South’s fragmented political opposition was no longer necessary. The last element of civil war, not in Cambodia but in South Viet Nam, was removed, replaced by North Viet Nam’s frontal and terrorist invasions in its bid for regional hegemony. In conjunction with the removal of the Southern rebel leaders, the NVA in Cambodia began a second-phase program of massive training of the essentially apolitical, headless Khmer Rumdoah—the peasant farmers and urban youth who had rallied under the name and to the call of North Viet Nam’s new marionette, Norodom Sihanouk.

And yet all was not necessarily lost for the Allies. For all the bungling, the unheeded advice, and the unread analyses, the incursion into the NVA sanctuaries, albeit coincidental to the administration’s announced and failed objectives, did stop the NVA from immediately toppling Phnom Penh.

Also, for the first time in the war substantial numbers of Northern soldiers had defected; twelve thousand NVA had been killed; eighteen thousand weapons had been captured along with 6.5 million antiaircraft rounds, a million rifle rounds, thousands of 122mm rockets, hundreds of military trucks, and six Mercedes-Benz autos. A quarter million rations of rice, enough to feed four divisions for three months, had been destroyed; an entire rear service group (the 86th) had been wiped out and the main communications liaison system, responsible for training, equipping and assigning replacement soldiers, was ruined.

North Viet Nam’s decision was difficult and hotly debated. In the end those calling for rebuilding the sanctuaries won over those who desired to plunge headlong into the now certain military conquest of Cambodia. Yet the decision to temporarily withdraw from the secondary objective (Cambodia), and to pull manpower and materiel back to rebuild the border base complexes to assist the primary objective of capturing South Viet Nam, pivoted not so much on their tactical losses as on two other factors: first, in the wake of the American domestic storm there was no possibility of a second incursion, thus new sanctuaries would be forever secure; and second, there was the fear in Hanoi that Phnom Penh’s fall would reinvigorate American hawks before they had been rendered politically impotent.

In early September, after the news of the “liberation” of Stung Treng City reached Phum Sath Din, new orders and new horrors descended like the seven plagues. The Viet Namese Communist Party Central Committee’s (the Hanoi Politburo’s) Central Commission for Kampuchean Affairs, headed by Le Duc Tho and assisted by Vo Chi Cong (who had engineered the Khmer Viet Minh repatriation of 1969 and 1970), ordered COKA (the Central Office for Kampuchean Affairs), headed by Le Duc Anh, to reorganize the “liberated” Khmers. Directives were routed through the A-40 subdivision at Siem Reap where COKA’s headquarters were adjacent to those of the NVA.

“There is no rice left.” Ry wept. “They’ve taken everything. Even the maize, salt and oil.”

“I know, Sister,” Sok tried to comfort her. It was early evening. The farmers had just returned from the fields to find the new orders posted on gates, at the wat, along the deserted market row. In their homes they found enough food for three days. “They left me only one rice pot,” Sok said sadly.

“And the boys. Where is Mister Committee Member? I should scratch out his eyes.”

“Ssshh! Ry, you must not be heard.”

“Where are they?”

“My husband has argued with him all day. All day he has begged. Chhuon’s at the pagoda. Tung’s with the red-eyed devils.”

“They’ve taken all the food. All the boys. Most of the girls.”

“Only those over fourteen. Only for training. They’ll come back to serve in the militia. Maybe they’ll have more to eat.”

“The sixteen-year-olds are being conscripted. But us...without food...”

“They said it will remain in the village. There are so many with nothing, some with hoards. Now it’ll be distributed equally. It will be rationed so we do not all starve.”

“Sok! Sok! Listen to yourself. You sound like them.”

“Dear Sister, what can we do. My husband knows best. We must...”

“escape.” Ry uttered the word very low. She studied Sok’s face for shock, for disbelief, “into the forest.”

Sok remained calm: After a moment she responded quietly, “There are patrols.” Now Ry did not respond. “And the bombings. And it’s against the rules.”

“tonight,” Chhuon whispered to Sok.

“tonight,” Sok signaled Ry when they met for ration distribution.

“tonight,” Ry signaled Ny Nimol, Ny Non Chan’s wife. Quietly throughout the village, the old people, members of the original four families, signaled one another and went home.

“Uncle”—Hang Tung smiled at Chhuon after he’d eaten heartily, devouring a dinner of four or five rations—“in a little while you’ll accompany me.”

“Tonight?” Chhuon asked. He blinked his eyes, fighting for an image. Then he tried to remain as empty of emotion as a rock, tried to see himself an undistinguished small stone.

“Yes. Were you going somewhere?”

“Only to bed,” Chhuon answered. “The rain’s heavy and my knees are swollen. I hoped to sleep.”

“Sleep later. Tonight we’ll have fun. Major Nui has invited me to play cards. You must come.”

“Oh Nephew, I’m so tired...”

“You
must
come. We’ll leave at 2100 hours. Rest now.”

The card game took place at Ny Non Chan’s house. Chhuon, Chan, Major Nui, Cadreman Trinh and Hang Tung sat at a low rectangular table, Major Nui at one end, the other end open. At the center of the table there was a charcoal heater. Above it, boiled a pot of oil. The men had finished snacking on thin slices of crayfish flash fried in the oil. Nimol removed the pot, leaving the embers exposed. Chhuon felt mesmerized by the glow. He stared at one particular coal glowing brightly on two edges, cracked and dark through the middle.

“They’re very hot, eh, Uncle?” Hang chuckled pleasantly.

“Yes,” Chhuon said self-consciously.

“You seem preoccupied tonight, Chairman Cahuom,” the cadreman said.

“It’s the crayfish,” Chhuon said. “I used to catch them in the river with my boys. I haven’t tried it in years.”

“Some of the soldiers caught these.” The cadreman smiled. “They’re camped by the bridge tonight. Perhaps we’ll have more tomorrow. They shine a light into the river and it attracts them. That’s how they do it.”

“Oh.” Chan tried to look amused. “I’ve always caught them during daylight.”

“Ah,” the cadreman chuckled. “But the big ones emerge only at night.”

Nimol returned with a bowl of watermelon seeds. She removed the heater. The seeds were a gift from Major Nui. As the major shuffled the cards Chhuon, feeling guilty, ravenously yet delicately picked at the seeds.

“Do these come out at night, too?” Chhuon tried to joke but the humor fell flat. Hang checked his watch. It was nearly midnight.

In the far distance, perhaps ten kilometers, a faint rumbling could be felt. “Those bastards,” Major Nui said. “Every night, every day. Why do they bomb?
Troi oi!
Almost never do they connect. They keep me awake.”

“Come, deal the cards.” Hang Tung laughed.

Chhuon raised his first card but he did not recognize it. He was thinking about the river, about tonight. Why tonight? Though it was not the first night he’d played cards with the Viet Namese, it was the first time the game had been called on such short notice and for such a late hour.

“The major tells me,” Hang Tung began, his smile wide, “that we’ll be seeing new rules tomorrow.”

Chhuon did not take the bait. He still had not recognized his card but thought it was not a card at all but a faint moving growing sheath, growing like a crystal, like his demon. His eyes darted up to Chan then dropped to the card. He wondered if the others could see his card pulsate. He cautioned himself, tried to be the rock.