The Shadow of Arms (43 page)

Yong Kyu looked around at Dr. Tran's comfortable living room, cooled by an air conditioner. There was an ivory elephant from Thailand, a stereo, a wet bar stocked with a variety of liquors, a Bengal tiger skin, potted flowers, and other ornaments that seemed to have no connection to the wretched war orphans. Tran wore a gold ring on his plump hand and was stuffing a pipe with Turkish tobacco.

“Do you get the medical supplies you need?” Yong Kyu asked.

Dr. Tran clicked his tongue. “In times like these, medicines are always in demand, no matter how much you can get. Of course, it depends on individual cases, but when treatment is extended, the out-patients keep coming back even after they are discharged from the hospital, and we never have enough for them all.”

“Where do you get your supplies?”

Dr. Tran was about to strike a match to light his pipe, but paused and rolled his eyes. “Our relief medicines come from neutral countries or from some of the Allied forces. Generally, items needed for emergencies are supplied with the help of the American military.”

Madame Hue brought in two glass bowls filled with fruit salad. Picking up a cherry with a silver spoon bearing the design of a monkey, Yong Kyu reflected that in all likelihood he was being served an item he himself had taken out of Turen.

“As I understand it, the hospitals affiliated with army headquarters rely entirely on American supplies for their medicines, and the Americans have no shortage of medicines.”

“They're soldiers,” Dr. Tran said with a sigh, “but they don't give the same priority to civilians.”

“Would you like to be supplied with more antibiotics and painkillers?”

“How?” Dr. Tran immediately asked, setting down his bowl.

“The American supply corps is interested in supporting civilian welfare as part of psychological operations. You should send an official letter to the commander of the American supply corps. It's also a good idea to send him statistics showing the number of patients and their clinical needs. For instance, you can make a request for antibiotics or painkillers corresponding to the number of out-patients as well as in-patients.”

“I did that once before, but they just told me to direct such requests to the Vietnamese military hospitals.”

“Naturally. It's because you, sir, don't understand how the military operates. Even the navy hospital only receives its own share from the supply corps according to the number and conditions of their own patients. But if you make a request direct to the supply corps, they'll make inquiries to the headquarters section in charge of support for civilian welfare. To improve treatment for civilian war casualties could be seen as having a positive psychological impact on the civilian sector.”

“Thank you. You've given me a good approach. But I fear it won't be as easy as you think.”

“Whatever the goal, it is always hard to set a precedent. For the American army, no principle is more important in military administration than following precedents. True, it's difficult to get something approved, but once it's put in force you can expect the model to be followed.”

“You have a point. The navy hospital's reply was a short message simply saying there was no precedent for the request.”

“I can suggest one more thing, sir. If you can set a precedent with medical items that are easy to get approval for, they'll give you almost any amount you request. I know of a certain village that was supplied with thousands of bottles of salt.”

“Salt?”

“To prevent heatstroke, each soldier gets a daily ration of about five salt pills. Some villages in the jungle asked a nearby troop installation for salt to make
nuoc mam
. Once it was approved, hundreds of crates of salt pills started to arrive. Instead of requesting cord to weave fishing nets, it is easier to request canned sardines, even if they aren't quite to your liking. Make a request for Terramycin and I'm sure you'll get it.”

“We need all kinds of medicine.”

“Of course. But the important thing is making it easy to get the approval. First, get a large supply of Terramycin and then you can sell it.”

“Sell it? To whom?”

“Why, to the merchants.”

Dr. Tran's eyes narrowed behind his glasses as he murmured, “And is the investigation headquarters also carrying out a mission of promoting the black market?”

This time Yong Kyu had his reply prepared. “It's easy enough to buy medicines. If you simply send a request for donations to the headquarters it will be refused, but isn't it true that you can get all items and in any quantity if you buy them? When the main road is closed, you find an alley and make a detour.”

Dr. Tran said nothing, and just kept whirling his silver spoon around and around in the fruit salad. After a while he spoke. “Why point this out to me?”

“Because of a Vietnamese friend of mine,” Yong Kyu admitted truthfully. “He's a very clever trader. Knowing that the price of medicines is high in the present market, he asked me a favor.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Yes. I'm sure you've heard of a merchant named Nguyen Cuong?”

“I have,” Dr. Tran said curtly.

“This friend of mine is his younger brother, a man by the name of Nguyen Thach. He's the one who wants to buy antibiotics.”

“Is that the only reason you came here?”

“No, sir. I came to be friends with Huan, too. I'd like to take him out and buy him a little gift, if I may?”

“I appreciate that.”

“I know something about the Turen supply warehouse. If you can manage to get some assistance from the provincial government office, then you'll get all the supplies you need.”

“Well, I'm running late. I have to be back at the hospital.”

Dr. Tran extended his hand as he got to his feet. Yong Kyu held out his hand and said, “Would you care to meet Mr. Nguyen Thach?”

“Give me a ring,” Tran replied, revealing no sign of emotion, his expression again as stony as it was before.

This time Yong Kyu did not salute but instead bowed before turning to leave.

Upon arriving at Thach's office in Le Loi market, Yong Kyu found Thach gone and Toi was in the hammock instead.

“I've been making rounds all morning with your chief sergeant. He drove and I had to handle all the bickering with the bar and club owners.”

Yong Kyu paused a moment before saying anything. “What do you think? Despite his demeanor, I think Nguyen Thach is a special kind of man.”

“What do you mean?”

“He knows more about the market than anybody else. Maybe even more than old man Hien.”

“He went to Hue University,” Toi said. “A very intelligent man he is.”

Yong Kyu let Toi in on the thoughts that had been crossing his mind. “I'm beginning to think that working with only Thach as a middleman may be disadvantageous for us. He's not a partner, just a dealer. Do we need to share his office?”

“Got a point there. But we shouldn't make him suspicious.”

“He'll have no reason to suspect us just because we move out of his place. After all, he's known from the beginning about our identity.”

“Let's provoke him on some business matter, then we can assess his response. I mean, that way, he may come to us with the suggestion that we leave.”

“What would provoke him?”

“I can think of something. He's got only one sore spot.”

With his eyes, Yong Kyu told Toi to go on. He lowered his voice before continuing.

“Let's pretend we're rooting out an NLF dealer here in Da Nang.”

Yong Kyu shook his head. “He's the one who's supposed to be filling us in on the NLF dealings. We've already agreed that I'll get details on old man Hien's business and swap the information for his.”

Toi chuckled. “That's why you're still green. He may gulp down the whole bird himself and hand you a feather at a time. He can't fool me, though. His being so curious about old man Hien's deals is just a feint, a gesture. If he hadn't said that, he might have succeeded in fooling us. It's possible that he's not working for the NLF, but there's no doubt that he's making profits through their channels.”

 

 

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.