Up Country (39 page)

Susan said nothing.

I got the Nissan up to a hundred KPH as we continued north.

Highway One swung east toward the sea again, and there were white sand beaches along the coast, and white sand hills to our left, covered with scrub brush. I said to Susan, “This is where I spent Christmas 1967. The white sands of Bong Son. We made believe it was snow.” I added, “There was a forty-eight-hour truce. We got a lot of Christmas packages from the Red Cross, and from private organizations and individuals. At that time, before Tet, people still supported the troops, if not the war itself.”

I recalled that Christmas was a particularly hot day, and the white sands had no shade trees. Christmas dinner had been delivered by helicopter, and we were sitting in the sand, eating turkey with all the trimmings, trying to keep the sand flies away, and the sand out of the food.

A kid from Brooklyn named Savino saw a long bamboo pole in the sand and decided to use it to make a shelter with his rubber poncho to keep the sun off him. He reached for the pole, someone shouted for him to stop, he pulled the pole, which was attached by a wire to a very large explosive device, and he blew himself back to Brooklyn in a body bag.

A bunch of other guys got hurt, half the platoon was deaf, and pieces of the kid were everywhere, including everyone’s mess tins and canteen cups. Merry Christmas.

I said, “A guy in my platoon was killed by a booby trap on Christmas day.”

“Was he a friend?”

“He . . . he wasn’t here long enough.” I added, “It was sort of a waste of time to make friends with the new guys. They had a bad survival rate, and they got people around them killed. If they were still alive after thirty days, then you’d shake their hand or something.”

We left my old area of operations, and I didn’t recognize this terrain.

Mr. Cam appeared to be getting uncomfortable with his arms behind his back. Susan noticed and asked me, “Should we untie him?”

“No.”

“He can’t get away when we’re moving this fast.”

“No.”

Susan finally lit her cigarette. I actually wanted a cigarette myself, probably because my head was still back in the Bong Son area of operations, where I used to do a pack a day. I said, “Let’s hear from Mr. Cam. Ask him if he remembers the war.”

She asked him, and he didn’t seem to want to answer. Finally, he spoke, and Susan translated. She said, “He was thirteen when the war ended. He lived in a village west of Nha Trang, and he remembers when the Communists arrived. He says that thousands of South Vietnamese troops had been passing through his village as they retreated from the highlands, and everyone knew the war was ending. Many people fled to Nha Trang, but he stayed in his village with his mother and his two sisters.”

“And what happened?”

She prodded him a little, he spoke in a quiet tone, and Susan translated. “He says everyone was very frightened, but when the North Vietnamese troops came, they behaved well. There were only women and children left in the village, and the women were not molested. But the Communists found a young army officer who had a leg amputated, and they took him away. Later, political cadres came and questioned everyone. They found two government officials disguised as peasants, and they were taken away. But no one was shot in the village.”

I nodded. “And his father? Brothers?”

Susan asked him, and he replied. She said to me, “His father had been killed in battle many years before. He had an older brother serving with the ARVN in the highlands, but he never returned home. He says his mother still waits for her son to return.”

I looked at Mr. Cam and saw he was upset. Susan, too, seemed disturbed by Mr. Cam’s story. My own memories of that time were starting to fill my head.

When you begin a journey like this, you have to expect the worst, and you won’t be disappointed.

We continued on along the black highway, through the night, and back in time.

W
e had come about three hundred kilometers from Nha Trang, and it was close to 10
P.M.
I was keeping the speed down to conserve fuel, and we weren’t in any particular hurry, anyway. I looked at the fuel gauge, and the needle was hovering around a quarter full.

I asked her, “How far to Da Nang?”

She’d already figured it out and said, “About a hundred fifty kilometers. How’s the fuel?”

“We burned some fuel back there running the fuzz. We may be able to reach Da Nang with the extra ten liters. Or maybe we’ll see an all-night station on the way.”

“In the last three hundred kilometers, we’ve passed only four gas stations, all closed.”

“Don’t we pass through Quang Ngai?”

“Yes. It’s right on Highway One. Provincial capital. It’s about seventy-five kilometers from here.”

“Take out my guidebook and see if they mention a gas station.”

She opened the guidebook and said, “Well, there’s a small map of the town . . . there’s a hotel, a pagoda, a church, a post office, a place called Rice Restaurant Thirty-four, a bus station—”

“These cars can run on rice.”

“I hope so. This map doesn’t show a gas station. But there has to be a few in a town that size. Maybe one is open. If not,” she added, “there’s one more town after Quang Ngai and before Da Nang that we may be able to
make. It’s called Hoi An, an old Chinese seaport. Very touristy and charming. I took a trip there the time I was in Hue. There are a lot of accommodations in Hoi An, and maybe a gas station that will be open late. We may be able to make it that far. There’s nothing between Hoi An and Da Nang.”

“Okay. Let’s see how it goes.”

Mr. Cam figured out that we were discussing fuel, and he said something to Susan.

She said to me, “Mr. Cam, who is now our friend, said that we can sometimes buy gasoline from private vendors. He says they sell it in stalls along the road. We should look for a painted sign that says et-xang, which means gasoline.”

“And they’re open all night?”

“Sort of. You go to the house near the sign, and they’ll sell you gasoline. I’ve done that on my motorcycle. The gasoline is usually sold in soft drink bottles, and it’s expensive.”

“How many Coke bottles do we need to fill a tank?”

“I don’t have my calculator. Look for a sign that says et-xang.”

I said to Susan, “Tell me again why Mr. Cam won’t do his civic duty and go to the police. Make believe Mr. Cam’s life depends on your answer.”

She stayed silent for some time, then replied, “I couldn’t even translate the concept of civic duty. If he gets his car back and about a hundred bucks for himself, two for Mr. Thuc, and a few hundred to fix the damage, he is not going to the police. When there’s an accident in Saigon, the last thing they want is for the police to show up.”

“Good. Case closed.”

Mr. Cam wanted a cigarette, and he deserved it. Susan lit it for him and held it while he puffed away.

We came to a place called Sa Huynh, a picturesque village on the coast surrounded by salt marshes. Before you could say “quaint,” we were out in the country again.

We continued on, and the highway swung inland through an area of small villages and rice paddies.

I glanced at my fuel gauge and saw that it was below a quarter of a tank. The road was flat, and I was keeping the speed down to eighty KPH, so I figured I’d be able to squeeze out enough fuel to reach Quang Ngai. If not, we had twenty liters in the gas cans.

I had not seen a single sign that showed distances between cities, or
even a sign that showed the name of a city. We were doing this all by map. The road itself was alternately good and terrible, mostly terrible. This place had a long way to go, but in fairness, after thirty years of war, they’d come a long way.

Susan said, “We should be approaching Quang Ngai. It’s on this side of the Tra Khuc River, and Highway One becomes the main street. Maybe we shouldn’t try to get through the town at this hour. And even if we found an open station, you’d have to change places with Mr. Cam.”

“So, what’s your suggestion?”

“I suggest we pull the car into some trees and wait until dawn. We can go into Quang Ngai in the morning and fill up.”

“All right. Look for a place to pull over.”

I slowed down, and we looked for a place where the car would be out of sight.

We were only a few kilometers from Quang Ngai, and I could see the lights of the town on the horizon. It was amazing, I thought, how distinct the towns were from the surrounding countryside, with no urban or suburban sprawl, no shopping malls, and obviously no gas stations. On the plus side, I hadn’t seen a cop on the highway since we started, except the two I ran into a ditch. But according to Susan, the military patrolled the highway after dark, and if there was one single military vehicle on the road, and one civilian car—this one—we’d be pulled over for no reason. The ace in the hole, of course, was the Colt .45. They wouldn’t expect that.

Quang Ngai was right up the road, about a kilometer, but I didn’t see any place to pull over. It was mostly rice paddies and villages, and the land was open, except for small stands of palm trees which didn’t offer any concealment.

I spotted a rise of land in the middle of a rice paddy that was connected to the highway by a dirt causeway or dike. I knew what this was, but it took a few seconds before it came to me. I said, “That’s a burial mound over there. We can park on the far side of it, and no one will see us.”

I slowed down and cut the wheels onto the dirt causeway that ran through the flooded rice paddies.

All of a sudden, Mr. Cam started going nuts. “What’s his problem?”

“He says that’s a burial mound.”

“I know what it is. We used to dig our night positions into burial mounds. Soft earth, good elevation, fields of fire—”

“He wants to know why you’re driving to the burial mound. You should stop.”

I stopped halfway to the big mound, and Mr. Cam calmed down. “What’s he saying?”

Susan spoke to him, and he got agitated again. She said to me, “I told him we were going to spend the night there. He’s not too thrilled about that.”

“Come on. They’re all dead. Tell him we’ll be very respectful, and we’ll pray all night.”

“Paul, he won’t spend the night on a burial mound. You’d have to hogtie him. They’re very superstitious, and it’s also disrespectful.”

“I’m not superstitious or culturally sensitive.”

“Paul.”

“Okay.” I threw the Nissan into reverse and backed it down the narrow dirt dike. I got on the highway, threw the car into gear, and we continued on. As soon as you do something nice, your luck runs out.

And sure enough, coming up the highway toward us was a pair of headlights, about a kilometer away. I killed my headlights and slowed down. The oncoming lights were too low to the ground to be a truck or bus, so it had to be something smaller, like a four-wheel drive, probably a military patrol.

Susan said, “Paul, pull off the road.”

“I know.” I put the Nissan in four-wheel drive and drove down the raised road embankment. There was no drainage ditch because the rice paddy was right at the bottom of the embankment. I drove parallel to the road with my right wheels in the rice paddy muck, and my left wheels on the side of the embankment. We were at a forty-five degree angle, maybe more, and I was concerned that the Nissan might flip. My rear wheels were starting to slip and sink into the muck. I stopped.

I looked up at the road and saw that I wasn’t really out of sight. But it was dark enough to hope for the best, while preparing for the worst. I said to Susan, “Give me the tote bag.”

I could hear the vehicle approaching now and saw the head beams coming closer.

She passed the bag to me, and I put my hand inside and found the pistol grip. I didn’t want Mr. Cam to see the gun because that could be the thing that sent him to the police.

I could feel the end of the magazine seated in the pistol grip. I clicked off the safety. I asked Susan, “Magazine fully loaded?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a round chambered?”

“No.”

“Extra magazines?”

“Two.” She added, “I’m frightened.”

I looked at Mr. Cam, who seemed apprehensive. I had the impression he was rehearsing his story for the authorities, and was glad he was tied up.

Within a few seconds, I could see the top of the vehicle as it approached. It was a big enclosed jeep-like vehicle, painted dark, not yellow, and I recognized it as military. I saw the driver, who was concentrating on the road, and a man in the rear.

The Nissan’s roof was about level with the raised highway, it was painted dark blue, it was a dark night, and the gods were with us. The military vehicle kept going.

We sat there for what seemed like a long time, then I put the Nissan into reverse, the rear wheels caught, and the Nissan backed up the embankment.

I sat on the road for a few seconds with the headlights still off and looked around. It was so dark I could barely see ten yards in any direction.

I began moving forward again without lights toward Quang Ngai. The glow from the town silhouetted some buildings on both sides of the road, and I saw something that looked promising. I pointed the Nissan toward the silhouette, stopped, and snapped on the headlights.

There on the right, at the end of a dirt trail, was a ruined structure without a roof. I hoped it wasn’t a Buddhist temple or we’d have another problem with Mr. Cam.

I drove slowly onto the dirt path that cut through the rice paddies, and I pulled up to the front of the white stucco structure. On the front peak, I could see the remains of what had been a church belfry. I said to Susan, “Catholic church. I hope this guy isn’t also Catholic.”

She said something to Mr. Cam, and he nodded.

I drove through the wide doorway and into the church, then cut the wheels and backed the Nissan into the front corner of the church so it couldn’t be seen from the road.

The headlights illuminated what was basically just a shell of a building with vegetation growing through the rubble-strewn concrete floor.

I killed the lights and the engine, and said, “Well, this is it for the night.”

We all got out and stretched, except that Mr. Cam couldn’t stretch his arms very well, so I untied him.

Susan got the water and the snacks out of the car, and we had a terrible dinner. I asked her, “Didn’t they have Ring Dings or cheese crackers in that gas station? What is this stuff ?”

“I don’t know. Candy. Stop complaining. In fact, you should say grace.”

Mr. Cam ate more than his share of the stuff in the cellophane bags, and he drank a whole liter of water by himself.

I had no choice but to tie him up again, so I bound his thumbs behind his back, took his sandals, and put him in the rear of the Nissan, where he lay down on the seat.

Susan and I sat cross-legged in the corner opposite the Nissan. The only illumination came from the starlight into the roofless building. She observed, “It must have been a nice country church once.”

“These were all over when I was here—ruined churches and pagodas. They were the only substantial buildings around, and civilians and military used to take cover in them. You’d be safe from small arms fire, but not rockets or mortars.”

She said, “It’s hard to imagine a war raging around you every day. I’m glad you were able to talk about it back there in Bong Son.”

I didn’t reply.

She took out her cigarettes and very expertly cupped the lighter and lit up quickly, just like an old combat soldier. She shielded the cigarette in her hands as she smoked. She said, “I’m cold. Can I borrow something from your suitcase?”

“Sure. I’ll get it.”

“Bring my backpack, too.” I stood and went to the Nissan. I opened the hatch door and got my blue blazer out of my suitcase, and took her backpack. I put my blazer over her shoulders.

She said, “Thank you. Aren’t you cold?”

“It’s about seventy degrees.”

Susan had a travel alarm clock in her backpack, and she set it to go off at midnight. She said, “We’ll set it every hour, so if we both drift off, this should wake us up.”

“Okay. I’ll take the first watch. Try to get some sleep.”

She lay down on the concrete floor with her backpack for a pillow.

We talked awhile, then I realized she’d drifted off.

I took the Colt .45 out of her tote and chambered a round. I put the pistol in my lap.

The alarm rang at midnight, and I shut it off before it woke her. I set it again for one
A.M.
, in case I drifted. But, oddly, I had no trouble staying awake, and I let her sleep until 4
A.M.

We switched places, and I gave her the pistol.

I lay my head on her backpack and remembered when my own backpack had been my pillow for a year, and my rifle had been my sleeping partner. We always slept fully clothed, with our boots on, swatting mosquitoes all night, worrying about snakes and about Charlie. We were dirty, miserable, sometimes wet, sometimes cold, sometimes hot, and always frightened.

This wasn’t the worst night I’d ever spent in Vietnam; far from it. But I couldn’t blame this one on anyone but myself.