The Shadow of Arms (6 page)

“No, sir. I came to pick up these goods.”

“Do you know what time it is now?”

“Please, pull me out this once, sir.”

“You're under Master Sergeant Pak, aren't you? When did you come here?”

“It's been two weeks, sir.”

“Bastard, been here only two weeks and already cheating on your superiors behind their backs . . . did you take the money?”

“I did, but these bastards . . .”

The soldier turned toward the Americans. Kang nodded. Then he called the American sergeant who seemed to be the head guard and talked with him for some time. He seemed to be signing some sort of receipt for the transfer of custody.

“You, over here.”

The soldier, his head hanging, walked across the room and stood before Blue Jacket Kang.

“How many times have you done this?”

“Today was the first time, sir.”

“How did you buy the Salems?”

“I increased the quantity by altering the shipping documents.”

“You son of a bitch, don't lie to me. Who did you buy it from? How much mark-up did you pay?”

The soldier was silent.

“Listen, bastard, if you want to help yourself at all, use your brain and don't disgrace yourself in public. How dare you profiteer right in front of our noses when everybody else is fighting for their lives in the middle of an offensive? Son of a bitch, thanks to your good connections you wrangled an assignment to the PX at brigade headquarters and within two weeks you open up shop to do business? Hey, Corporal Ahn, take a good look at this bastard.”

Kang pointed at the soldier with his ballpoint pen. Then he went on.

“One report from me and you'll never be coming back to Da Nang to pick up the goods. For thirty cartons of Salems, at a buck-fifty a carton, you must have paid forty-five dollars.”

“No, sir. I paid sixty dollars.”

“Who did the extra fifteen go to? You couldn't have bought them with a ration card. Must have been an American PX soldier. What's his name?”

“I don't know his name, sir. I just made friends with him a few days ago. He's black and fat, works at Warehouse No. 2 . . .”

“You mean the black guy with the yellowish brown face?”

The soldier nodded and Kang turned to Yong Kyu and said, “Good timing. Remember: a fat man called Park.”

Kang asked the soldier again, “You haven't reported it to the Americans, have you?”

“I only told them it was goods I was ordered to pick up.”

“So you're to keep it and share the profit between the two of you, bastard. . . . Then those guys took a total of one hundred fifty dollars from you, right?”

The soldier nodded. A sixty-dollar investment turned into a hundred fifty in a few minutes, the goods have a new owner and ninety dollars is left as sheer profit. Blue Jacket Kang talked over the situation again with the American sergeant and the Vietnamese police. The policeman, obviously agitated, spoke loud and fast.

“No way you'll ever see your principal again. The smokes will all be confiscated by the American soldiers and the Vietnamese is arguing that he should not be shorted a penny out of his hundred fifty dollars. If you're willing to forget about the money they said they wouldn't make a case out of it.”

“I'll give up the money, sir.”

“You idiot,” Kang spat out. “Who said you could give it up? Whoever's money it was, it's blood money. You've seen them, haven't you? We'll also have to recover the expenditures. Do you have the shipping documents with you?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, you do have your ID, right?”

The soldier took out his ID and held it up. Blue Jacket Kang took it and went over to them. After a lengthy debate they left the office together. Yong Kyu remained seated on a hard metal chair. The shrewd-eyed soldier in the neat uniform tried to strike up a conversation.

“You must be new here?”

Yong Kyu only looked at him blankly. Definitely a city bastard. His longish hair falling on his neck gave him a certain charm. Fair complexion, hands long and soft.

“Friends? We've got nothing to lose.”

Yong Kyu took a cigarette and put it between his lips. The soldier offered him a light, and Yong Kyu glared at him for a minute before letting him light his cigarette.

“Even back home I heard how good Da Nang is.”

Even after accepting the light, Yong Kyu kept examining him without a word. Not a speck of dust on his boots. Only then did Corporal Ahn remember that he was in civilian clothes. Kang returned with the head American guard. He summoned Yong Kyu and introduced him to a thin American technical sergeant. After that they all went outside. In front of the main gate, Kang took out the PX soldier's ID card.

“You said for sure that you would give up the cost price, didn't you?”

The soldier hesitated.

“Look bastard, why you keep changing your mind like a little girl, huh? Did you say so, or didn't you?”

“The truth is, it wasn't my money, sir.”

Blue Jacket Kang waved the ID right in front of his nose and said, “Shall I draw up the papers and send you with this to the stockade or would you prefer to take it?”

This time the soldier did not hesitate and hastily snatched his ID, saying, “All right.”

“Where are you sleeping?”

“At the recreation center, sir.”

“You think that's a private hotel for bastards like you, eh? Get lost,” Kang muttered, pushing the soldier's chest, who seemed somehow reluctant to depart. The soldier turned away.

Kang spoke again. “One of these days we should raid that rec center and comb through the place. Looks like it's crawling with AWOLs.”

Then they hopped back into the Jeep and Kang floored the accelerator, gunning the motor loudly. As he drove, Kang said, “The money for today's drinks has fallen into our hands. You don't have any pocket money, do you? Here's twenty dollars. Spend it.”

He extended a hand with four military five-dollar bills. Yong Kyu hesitated.

“What are you waiting for? This is snot-smudged money, anybody's for the taking.”

Yong Kyu accepted the cash. Since a month's pay for a combat fighter was forty dollars, it was like being paid for two weeks of duty. That was enough time for him to have gone on dozens of ambush reconnaissance patrols and see half a dozen or more of his comrades, torn and dead, carried away by helicopter. Who knows, it could have been a period in which he himself, a quadruple amputee, was shipped on a hospital vessel to the Philippines.

“We'll take a look at the navy and the marine PXs tomorrow. Why don't we go to the Dragon Palace for a Korean dinner and then head over to the Bamboo, what do you say?”

Blue Jacket Kang, who had been doing all the talking, turned around to look at Yong Kyu.

“I've just given you a lesson that would have taken you at least two months of experience to begin to understand. Now, what are you going to do for me? As I said before, nothing is free around here.”

Yong Kyu's mind was elsewhere. He was thinking of his buddies down in the platoon who by now were scouring some back alley in Hoi An for area defense. It did not take longer than smoking a cigarette for a comrade to be killed in action and evacuated. Before long, they would have a hard time remembering his face.

“Hey, Blue Jacket Ahn, what's your name?”

“Ahn Yong Kyu.”

“Yong Kyu . . . would you give me your ration card?”

“My ration card?”

“Headquarters will issue you one tomorrow or the next day. With an American army logistics staffer accompanying you, you can walk into any PX in the area and buy whatever you want. I've already reached the limit. In exchange, I'll transfer everything to you.”

“Transfer what?”

“The secrets . . . sum and substance of making money.”

“Take it.”

“Thanks. You get yours from the next new arrival, all right? Anyway, you won't be needing one until you're ready to go back home.”

The Jeep retraced the same route and arrived at the main intersection. As it was about to turn, a scooter driving in the same direction almost fell under it. As it skidded to a stop in an attempt to avoid a collision, the scooter hit a tree alongside the road. The Jeep, braking suddenly, spun sideways. Yong Kyu hit his head on the door of the Jeep and Blue Jacket Kang's face was instantly white with rage.

“You whoring bitches . . . !”

His head stuck out the window, Kang was pouring out curses he had picked up from the Americans. Two girls were staggering to their feet. Their white
ahozai
skirts were smudged with dirt. Already the streets were getting dark. Kang kept looking at his watch as he drove on.

Footnotes:

 

 

4

Out beyond the airport the First US Marine Division was dug in around Dong Dao, also known as “Pink Mountain.” The original Vietnamese name “Dong Dao” appeared on their maps, but it was common for the Americans to rename places whenever they found them hard to pronounce. For instance, one of the hamlets in the hills on the way to Tam Ky that had given quite a few young recruits to the Liberation Front had been christened “Charlie Town.” The name meant it was a Viet Cong village; “Charlie” was the American soldiers' chosen nickname for the little brown devils they were fighting. The American army did not consider Charlie a worthy foe.

Dong Dao was a barren, reddish mountain without a single tree left standing. The Americans had built several defensive bunkers on the high terrain. Stretching off toward the Atwat Mountains on the far side there was a series of valleys, some shallow, some deep, all covered with dense jungle foliage. Most of the villages around Dong Dao had become little commercial satellites of the American military camp. The village of Sondin, where there was a Buddhist temple, remained as it had been before the war. The inhabitants of Sondin were still mostly peasant farmers.

Pham Minh walked the whole way to Dong Dao. The road checks had already been set up. He had to pass through three different checkpoints where police and militia were inspecting IDs and searching through personal effects. He barely made it to Sondin before dark. The night shift teams, fully armed, were heading out to relieve the checkpoint sentries. The village looked peaceful. Families were out in their front yards eating rice from bowls and children were playing in the dusty streets. Uncle Trinh's house was directly across from the temple, which stood at the center of the village.

In the old days, Uncle Trinh had been the principal of a grammar school in Da Nang. Since leaving the school in 1963, he had been making a living as a horticulturist, cultivating a nursery in his garden. Back in Da Nang he had led the Association of Buddhist Students. Pham Minh, Tanh, and their other friends from Hue were all disciples of the old teacher, fondly calling him “Uncle Trinh.” There were many former students who had gone off into the jungle or become NLF officers who had also called him “Uncle.”

Uncle Trinh was an active participant in the anti-government movement that spread among Buddhists across the country, from May to October of 1963. Tanh criticized him for being too meek a liberal, but Pham Minh deeply respected the man's vast knowledge of Vietnamese history and highly valued his opinions. There were always youths gathered at his feet.

He was living with his wife and daughter. He had two sons as well, but after the Geneva Accords one of his sons went to Hanoi for good and the whereabouts of his second son were unknown. Pham Minh had not seen the second son since the rainy season of the previous year. Uncle Trinh's home was wooden and rectangular. Out in the front yard roses and cannas were in full bloom, and behind the house there was a large flowerbed with several species. A table and chairs were set up on the porch, but Uncle Trinh's seat was empty and only his wife and daughter were sitting there drinking tea.

“Hello.”

“Oh, Minh, when did you come?”

“Is Uncle at home?”

“He's inside.”

As Pham Minh approached, he could smell a jasmine fragrance wafting from their cups.

“It's Cholon tea, would you like some?”

As Minh considered whether or not to go inside, the daughter tugged at his sleeve and said, “Father is sleeping now. Please wait till he wakes up. How's Hue?”

“Been quiet lately.”

“It was in an uproar this time last year, wasn't it? I heard the city was occupied for two weeks.”

“That's right, it was liberated for two weeks exactly,” Minh said, correcting her choice of verbs.

As Mrs. Trinh poured some green tea into Minh's cup, the daughter asked, “Have you eaten dinner yet? We made some curry, there's still plenty left . . . ”

“I would like some, thank you.”

The young widow patted Minh's hand gently.

“No wonder you have no energy.”

She brought out the meal. Fried bananas, vegetables, and sweet rice with curry on top. His mouth watering at the smell of curry, Minh picked up the pair of long chopsticks and started wolfing down the food.

“Your parents are well?”

Pham Minh seemed not to have heard the question. Hunched over the table, he was totally absorbed in eating. Flares began to light up the dusk gathering over Dong Dao.

“When did you get back?”

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“Something is bothering you.”

Pham Minh kept on eating and said nothing. The noisy whine of a motorbike grew louder as it approached, with a cloud of dust mushrooming behind. The scooter slid to an abrupt stop in front of the house. Sitting behind the girl driving it was Shoan. Seeing Pham Minh, she let a long sigh of relief.

“My, who is this? Chan Te Shoan! Please come in. Invite your friend in, too.”

“No, she can't. She has to get home before curfew. Thanks, Puok.”

When Pham Minh looked at her, the girl on the scooter smiled at him, covering her mouth with her hand.

“You're Lei's brother, aren't you?”

The scooter zoomed noisily away. Trinh's daughter looked at Pham Minh and Shoan in turn as they sat beside each other.

“What's going on? Are you hurt?”

Shoan's white
ahozai
was torn and dirty, and her hand was bandaged in a shredded handkerchief.

“Oh! It's nothing, I just had a fall on the way here . . . ”

“I'm sorry, but it seems that we have to ask to spend the night here.”

Mrs. Trinh smiled softly. “I believe something is worrying you both. Has Pham Minh received a draft notice?”

Pham Minh avoided answering.

“ . . . I'm leaving home. But that doesn't mean I'm going back to school.”

From inside there was a barely audible cough.

“Ah, father must be up now,” said the daughter.

Pham Minh went in alone, leaving Shoan on the porch. Inside, the room was in disarray with wicker chairs strewn all over the place. The thick odor of opium saturated the air. A hammock was hanging at the door leading out back and in it Uncle Trinh lay sideways, rocking back and forth. A long pipe still loaded with a bit of smoldering opium was sitting on the tobacco box. Trinh's eyes were cloudy and he could not seem to focus them. His long grayish hair was pulled back neatly from his forehead and he was clad in white.

“How are you, Uncle? It's Pham Minh.”

“Um, Pham Minh . . .” Trinh muttered, listlessly waving his long arm. “Come closer.”

Pham Minh moved a wicker chair up beside the hammock.

Trinh looked around. “I'm thirsty. What time is it?”

“After seven, I think.”

Pham Minh brought a kettle of cooled green tea from the table and Trinh drank some, savoring it.

“It's back again.” Trinh touched his forehead and then slowly rose from the hammock. “We're back. From the glory of the Li Dynasty to Cochinchina, we've come back.”

Pham Minh said nothing. Trinh put on a pair of fancy sandals with cork insoles and pulled another chair over to sit across from Pham Minh. His dim consciousness seemed to awaken gradually.

“You've changed a lot.”

Pham spoke in a reproachful tone. Following Minh's gaze, Trinh looked over at the raw opium lying on top of the tobacco box.

“You're right. I'm an old man . . . dragging out his life too long.”

“You don't drink?”

“Never. My body won't let me. I can't sleep at night. Lately I've been taking trips.”

“Trips?”

“To escape the Sondin of today. I've been roaming down in the delta region where the bananas and mangos are plentiful and the birds sing cheerfully in the trees. You can see the Mekong River.”

Pham Minh hung his head. Trinh kept on drinking tea, the hand holding his cup was shaking.

“In the old days you used to give us inspirational speeches.”

“It's gotten boring. It's taking too long. I hear there's an offensive underway out there now, eh?”

“The lunar New Year offensive just started. But the cities are quiet now. Nothing has changed in Saigon, though.”

“It was the same last year and the year before. In the days of Dien Bien Phu we had false hopes. Those children who went to my school must all be dead by now, or disappeared.”

“Still, new babies are born everyday.”

Pham Minh felt the sudden chill of Trinh's icy fingers on the back of his hand.

“True, and you are beside me. But we live in a world where you can't go on living without choosing one side or the other. So, you quit school, did you?”

Pham Minh hesitated for a second before answering. “I too have made a choice.”

“Which side?” Trinh asked with a grin.

“I volunteered to join the National Liberation Front,” Pham Minh said flatly.

“Ah . . .”

Uncle Trinh squeezed Minh's hand and then released it.

“So you've reached that age. I should add your name to that list up there.” He looked up at a Buddhist altar in the center of the inner room. There was red incense in the burner, but it was not lit. Above it stood a candlestick and on the wall, columns of palm-sized nameplates.

“Thirty to be exact. Some entered the government army and others joined the Liberation Front.”

“All killed in action?”

Trinh shook his head.

“I don't know how many of them have died . . . perhaps all. Or some may still be alive.”

“To join the government army at a time like this is to stab your own people in the back. They are traitors.”

“You're right,” Trinh said quietly, “but they are also part of the history produced by Cochinchina.” Trinh laughed and continued, “It is also true of the people of my generation. Ultimately, only you boys will remain, or maybe it will not end till long after you're gone. But all must be remembered. Those who fought, and those who fled.”

Trinh reached out his bony hand for the tobacco box. He rolled a small chunk of resin-like opium into a round ball.

“Why don't you give that up?”

“Ah, why bother? My mind is sound. And there are so many lost, that I too am tempted by destruction.”

Trinh set the long pipe down. Shoan had noiselessly crept in and was now standing behind Pham Minh.

“Hello.”

“Shoan! So you've come too. I trust your father is well?”

Shoan, shy, managed to voice a quiet “yes.”

“Come, sit here. You must have come to see Pham Minh off.”

Pham Minh pulled another chair over for Shoan.

“Just a coincidence.”

“Very well. I'm glad you came to see me.”

Recalling their farewell earlier, Minh and Shoan thought about their vague promise to meet at Uncle Trinh's house. As Minh set out not long after their parting, Shoan too must have soon slipped away from home and rushed to Trinh's.

“I have seen many young couples like you. I am happy to be able to host you in my home.” He began to fill the bowl of his pipe with opium. “There are times I feel I ought to have become a monk or a clergyman.”

“I don't think you'd . . .”

“Why, I don't have any religious qualities, you mean? My generation, we're all alike. Skillful at praying and shamelessly outliving our usefulness. I'd like to pray for you . . . and be master of ceremonies at your wedding.”

Pham Minh was holding Shoan's hands. His trembling fingers pressed into her sweat-soaked palms.

“Please don't add my name to your altar.”

“Why not?”

“I'll be back in person to see you.”

“No, Minh, you no longer have to come and see a man like me.”

“Don't you approve of my choice?”

“My only wish is for you to win a victory, a clear victory,” Trinh mumbled.

Smoke curled from the pipe. The old man's face and hands gradually merged into the deepening darkness behind him, leaving him nothing but a white figure. The room was filled with a smell of grass blended with the stench of burning opium.

“I'm selling gold now. I hid quite a bit up in the attic. My late father did the same before me. Every household had only two things, a Buddhist altar and gold. Nothing else was certain. But . . . from this year on I'm selling it to buy and squander the most uncertain of things.”

“Opium, you mean?”

At those words from Pham Minh, the old man suddenly thundered, “Even on stormy days, time goes on!”

The three of them sat in silence. Bursts of gunfire rang out. In the intervals between the sounds of automatic weapons, helicopters could be heard. Night had fallen and with it returned the fighting and the repression.

“You two, my dears . . .” whispered Uncle Trinh. “Go on out to the air raid shelter in the backyard. It's a nice place to enjoy the fragrance of the flowers and to watch the stars.”

Uncle Trinh lied back down in the hammock. “Hurry, now, and go,” he urged as the hammock started to sway.

Shoan and Minh rose hand in hand. In the swinging hammock Uncle Trinh had fallen back into a deep sleep.