The Tunnels of Cu Chi (24 page)

Inside the tunnels, shows would run for five minutes; then all lights were put out to allow some air replenishment through vent holes, and then the show would start again. Sometimes the air was so bad the audience was ordered not to join in the patriotic singing, to conserve what little oxygen there was. When the American planes flew over, the security guards ordered the show to stop, but audiences would wait patiently for the all-clear. Some people walked up to seven miles through hostile ARVN-dominated territory just to attend a performance.

One of the most popular songs of the period—another Pham Sang creation—was called “Cu Chi, the Heroic Land.” The lyric went:

Some songs were love songs. But Bay Lap, a sterner follower of the party line than Pham Sang, insisted that even love songs should carry a message. In the end, Pham Sang wrote a hybrid lyric—it was, he admitted, not his finest—the first line of which was: “I love you, I miss you and wait for you, liberation fighter, let's fight the enemy together.” Bay Lap felt strongly that the main purpose of this song was to encourage the soldier to fight and the girl to work harder. Pham Sang, who was beginning to feel the first stirrings of artistic integrity in a socialist environment, wanted the song to be mainly romantic. He lost. Bay Lap is today the deputy director of cultural affairs
in Ho Chi Minh City; Pham Sang is right out of show business.

Tensions were now beginning to develop between Pham Sang and the party. He believed his entertainers were not always getting a square deal; he did not like being told specifically what to write—there had to be some individuality in the theater; and it seems likely that he was beginning to have one or two tiny doubts about the general course of the revolution. According to him: “The Cu Chi District Committee patronized the Cu Chi cultural troupe, but troupe members did not enjoy a definite status as actors and artists do now (1983). There were times when we suffered much hardship. During the dry season, whenever it was possible, we gave performances. During the rainy season and in great fighting, we could not always perform. So we were forced to earn our living as laborers.

“My actors and actresses and singers became seasonal workers, plowing, sowing, harvesting rice in ‘safe' areas. They were real actors and now they had to do these kinds of work. They even had to take turns as hired hands. There were no regulations as we have now. Now artists and actors can collect their monthly ration of rice. The Front only fed us if we were in a desperate situation. Some of my colleagues worked as slaves to support themselves and their comrades, like Ut Tho, who is now in charge of a cinema in District 5. He worked as a laborer season after season, just to stay alive.”

By 1968, unequivocal instructions from COSVN pointed out sharply that the tunnels were primarily for battle purposes. By implication, their use for entertainment was a very low priority. In order to retain the use of tunnels for his productions at all, Pham Sang restricted tunnel performances to those for party hierarchy, civil servants, and soldiers. The others, the bulk audience—friends, peasants, and Sunday workers—had to take their places in the revolutionary new al fresco theaters created in B-52 bomb craters. Some thirty feet deep, these craters were narrow at the bottom and very wide at the top. Pham Sang realized the architectural potential—they were miniature amphitheaters. The main advantage was they were available without party harassment or grumbling. Small stage areas were flattened in the hard earth at the bottom of the bomb crater. The crater slopes were gentle enough to sit on, and special shallow tunnel shelters were built into the sides of the craters.

So opened a handful of the most extraordinary theaters in the history of the stage—a testament to the endurance and innovation of the actor, one that gives new meaning to the oldest theatrical cliché of all: The show must go on. Although there were no stage props, no curtains, and no lights, the theaters were a huge success, better ventilated than those dreadful tunnels and somehow a more defiant symbol. Pham Sang was happy for his art, Bay Lap for the political credit. Security was less strict and audiences were by now almost disdainful of the shelling. In fact, even when shells landed less than a hundred meters from the performance, the audience would stay, and while
they
stayed, the players played on. If the explosions crept too close, the audience ducked into the crater tunnels and waited; even then they would often continue singing the songs. They were remarkable nights, and to this day, when what is left of the original Cu Chi ensemble gather for their yearly meetings in Ho Chi Minh City, tears come to the eyes of the raconteurs as they recall those fine hours.

By late 1969, Pham Sang was finding it increasingly difficult to move his diminishing troupe around an area which had now become the scene for ferocious bombing or shelling strikes by the Americans. The Tet offensive had failed to end the war—indeed conditions had become much worse for the Communists after Tet. Now large mechanized sweeps across the land were being mounted by the battle-hardened 25th Infantry. Sang was changing, too. He had enjoyed the early years as a party hack. A Viet Cong victory had seemed inevitable. It would be followed by important political appointments, and Sang did not imagine he would be ignored by the grateful party. But by 1969 his character had developed and matured. An artist by temperament, Sang had never felt the tug of the military. For him the sound of the trumpets meant the raising of a curtain rather than a call to arms. But the fighting and the sharing of hardship, the cries of the wounded in the tunnels, and the haunted eyes of the young soldiers had left an impression. He hated the Americans as much as ever, but he had also spotted hypocrisies and inconsistencies within the party. Bay Lap, a former friend, epitomized those who, as far as Pham Sang was concerned, were able to further their careers through this endless and dreadful war. How far had he himself gone down this path? How was it that after four years of fighting he still had not fought
a battle? Would patriotic songs alone eventually drive the Americans out? These thoughts were uppermost in his mind.

He was in charge of the Cu Chi Sub-Zone 1 Cultural Troupe, a sadly diminished and mixed bag of some thirty performers, when he was ordered (he used to volunteer) to give shows at Phuoc Hiep village and at An Tinh village near Trang Bang. To reach these villages he would have to lead his troupe across Route 1 to the north of Suoi Cut, which he negotiated without difficulty. All of them arrived at An Tinh just before midnight, and managed to scrounge beds for the night in the villagers' huts. At seven the next morning, however, the Americans landed by helicopter at the other end of the village, which caused the prompt cancellation of Sang's show. Coincidentally, his own niece, Vo Thi Mo, was the commanding officer of an all-female village defense platoon. Pham Sang went to see her to discuss the problem. She told him that naturally the women would stay and fight. By implication there was nothing to prevent Uncle Pham and his entertainers from fighting, too. Sang ducked out, saying somewhat tactlessly: “How can you fight? You are just a few women. If you fire your guns the Americans will come and wring your necks.” The insult, that the women did not even qualify for death by shooting, was unfair, the more so as Pham Sang was himself beginning a long retreat.

Pham Sang took his troupe and recrossed Route 1, heading for Suoi Loi in Vuon Trau hamlet, which is a part of the village of Phuoc Hiep. He justified his retreat by claiming responsibility for the safety of his entertainers, but he knew there was a streak of something else that made him run. Unfortunately, in the course of his attempt to put as much distance as he could between himself and the Americans, he bumped into the commanding officer of the 7th Regiment of the North Vietnamese army, who naturally assumed Pham Sang and the troupe had arrived to entertain his men. “We are so happy you have arrived,” he said to Sang. “Please stay for the night and perform for us tomorrow evening.” Pham Sang said: “The Americans have landed across the road. This is not time to perform our plays.” But the commander wouldn't hear of it: “Do you know what is our strength? You should not be scared. We are two regiments here. Do you think we can't protect your troupe?” So Sang and his group bedded down for the night and the NVA soldiers fed them.

The following morning, one lone spotter plane circled overhead. Twenty minutes later the Americans landed in two waves of eighteen helicopters each. Tanks and infantry supported by artillery had also moved up and were now surrounding the hamlets of Mit Nai, Vuon Trau, and Suoi Loi. Suddenly the optimistic assurances of the NVA colonel began to look a little hollow. Even two regiments of Vietnamese would not be sufficient to guarantee protection from what the Americans were throwing in.

Pham Sang's troupe of thirty dispersed and he retired for a while to a secret underground shelter that had been specially dug for him because of his fame and his status. The NVA commander sought him out there and, ignoring his own advice of the previous day, suggested Pham Sang might after all be safer if he tried to leave, as a long and fierce engagement was about to begin. Once more Pham Sang prepared to run.

“I went by myself and soon met a younger man, and asked him if he knew the country well. He said, ‘I know this area well—this is my native hamlet.' I said, ‘Let's get out of this place together then.' So I let him lead because he said he knew the area. He led us straight to a place where the American tanks were coming in. I asked him, ‘Do you know any other way?' and he did not answer me. I suggested we hide in a clump of bamboo trees and wait until dark to find a way out. Even though there was plenty of country all around, one tank moved straight toward our hiding place as if it knew we were there. If I had not rolled over, it would have passed right over my stomach. My companion was shaking like a leaf. I pulled him to my side, but he would not stop trembling. I told him: ‘Fuck your mother! Our soldiers are fighting and sacrificing their lives and we are doing nothing but hiding ourselves. If we have to die here, then so be it.' Yet just as I spoke what I thought were heroic words, I looked up and saw an American tank so close that I could see speckles of rust as small as straw on the track. The American at the machine gun was swiveling it round, and my companion jumped out and shouted, ‘I surrender.' I told myself, ‘That's the end of me.' ”

It was at precisely this moment in his life, lying face down in the dirt, humiliated and within a muscle twitch of death, that Pham Sang found courage for the first time in the war. The party hack, the writer of songs and plays that motivated
others, suddenly found motivation of his own. He could surrender, he could die, or he could do what he had urged others to do for so long. He could resist.

He just managed to see and hear his unlucky companion being roughly interrogated by the Americans. While the GIs were fully occupied with their prisoner, Pham Sang was able to crawl undetected into a bamboo clump nearby. In the undergrowth he left a small radio set, his clothes in a bag, and a large part of the past. He took with him his gun, two hand grenades, and a sheet of camouflaged (American) parachute cloth. Even as he was inching himself away, he heard his companion betray him by name. The Americans ran over to search the bamboo clump, found the discarded equipment, but not the man. They returned to their unfortunate prisoner with renewed vigor.

Pham Sang managed to put a little more distance between himself and the Americans but then realized to his great alarm that the Americans were deploying themselves to stay and hold the area and spend the night there. It would have been madness to move, and Sang stayed where he was for the moment. One GI came extremely close to where he was hiding and began digging a trench for the night. Sang pulled the pins out of both of his hand grenades and held them ready. If he was discovered he would take the American with him, or he would throw one grenade, run and then throw the other at any pursuers. Incredibly, the American didn't see him. A Vietnamese would have seen me ten times over by now, Sang thought to himself. The Americans must have very bad eyesight. After the American had dug his trench, he took out a mosquito-repellent spray and sprayed the area, at one stage so close to Pham Sang that it was only with a superhuman feat of self-control that he didn't cough and retch as the acrid spray went over his face.

When the American moved off to rejoin some comrades, Sang gently put the pins back in the grenades and tried crawling to a new position. It would have been easy to surrender; there would have been less pain. Instead, for the next six hours, from seven at night until one the next morning, Pham Sang, the great Communist actor-manager, dragged himself through the American lines. Bleeding from numerous cuts and scrapes, half-demented by thirst, carrying now only the tools for killing or suicide, he wriggled like a giant worm through the lines,
until finally he finished up exactly where he had begun that endless day, at Suoi Loi. He returned just as both Communist regiments were preparing to break out of the American trap. Within an hour the counterattack began, concentrating on a 500-meter front through marshland, where the Americans could not use their tanks to full advantage.

By now utterly exhausted, Pham Sang could only limp painfully back to the small tunnel that had originally been dug for him the day before. First there would have to be sleep. He sank gratefully into the stinking pit that would cover and protect him through what was left of the night. Even as he closed his eyes, he heard footsteps approaching above. Only he and the small guerrilla cell of diggers knew of the existence of this tunnel—and the others were fighting their way through the American lines. Small pieces of earth fell on to Pham Sang's face. Somebody was trying to open his trapdoor. It could only be an American.