Young Man In Vietnam Part 6

The a.s.sault wave moves through the camp quickly. The men check each hut after throwing a grenade into it. There is the occasional crackle of rifle fire as one of the perimeter fire teams catches a guerrilla trying to slip away.

In less than five minutes there are no more guerrillas - there are no more huts - there is no more firing. The camp smells of smoke and gunpowder and death.

Your troops drag the enemy bodies into a row and you photograph them for intelligence purposes. The bodies are searched for maps and papers. They won't need them now.

The Nung slips quietly up to your side, grinning, and you remember the enemy sentry. He shows you a small Chinese carbine the VC like to carry. You don't have to worry about the sentry.

At last you can call for helicopters to take you back to the battalion area. And to rest. You have taken three casualties - none serious. One man stepped into a punji trap and tore his leg and foot. The others were wounded by their own grenade fragments. There are eighteen enemy dead.

You find a rice cache and pour it into the stream. The little waterfall is beautiful - even on this morning. The sun is beginning to come through the morning grayness and the light sparkles in the dancing water. You burn what is left of the huts and throw tear gas down some escape tunnel entrances.

But nothing comes out. You leave the enemy dead behind. You don't have time to bury them and they will have a good effect on their compatriots. They won't be quite as sure of their safety anymore. They won't be as good soldiers for their worrying.

You walk about a mile to a clearing and set up a defensive perimeter to cover the approaching helicopters. In an hour you are back at the battalion CP for debriefing. There is hot food for everyone - and showers - and rest. As you tick off the events of the past two days for the debriefing officers, your mind can't focus on any of them for very long. It's like the sunlight dancing on that waterfall. Things are fragmented - disjointed.

You remember the heat and the weariness and the sun. And the look on the peasants' faces. And the hut resting on your front sight. And the chickens flapping. And you remember the waterfall. As you close your eyes in the tent you are thankful for these bridges. And for the sleep that makes the bridges unnecessary.

10 THE WAITRESS.

The Vietnamese guard knows you and grins and nods as he salutes. You return his salute and walk across the dusty courtyard of the compound to the MACV (Military a.s.sistance Command Vietnam) hotel. The hotel houses the mess. The U.S. Army runs the hotel and they use Vietnamese nationals as cooks so army personnel can collect a special living allowance. But the cooks never eat what they prepare and the food is bad. They seldom serve meat dishes and you don't feel like rice or beans or spaghetti. You were up all night debriefing an ambushed patrol and it's a hot day and very humid - the kind of day you often get in Hue. You wouldn't bother coming in at all, but you have to talk to Tarn. You go to the section of the mess reserved for junior officers. You pick a table in the corner and sit with your back to the wall. It's early and you are the only one there. They won't start serving for half an hour. You open your shirt pocket and take out a letter from a girlfriend in the States. The letter is two weeks old. You save it because it reminds you there is another world. You begin to read the letter when you hear a plate crash in the kitchen. One of the cooks begins shouting in Vietnamese. The room floods with a singsong of high-pitched tones spoken too rapidly for you to note anything but anger.

The door to the kitchen opens and Tarn, the waitress, floats across the mess toward your table. A strong odor of stale grease and burnt food escapes before a coiled spring closes the door. It's hard to forget the war in Vietnam - even for a little while. But it's possible when you watch Tarn.

You have been in Hue two weeks as the Marine liaison officer with the First ARVN Division headquartered there. You have spent all your free time with Tarn. You have orders to return to your outfit at Phu Bai tomorrow. But you told Tarn you were posted to Hue permanently. Now it's about to end, and you must tell her the truth. You tried to tell her a couple of days ago, but the words wouldn't come. When you tell her the truth all pretense that it can never end must end as well.

She smiles shyly and waits for you to greet her. You reach out and take her hand. She trembles slightly and pulls back.

"What will other girls say?" she asks.

"Who cares." You don't. But it's very different for her - a Vietnamese. Girls from the better families don't indulge in public displays. She smiles and whispers, "Tonight."

You smile back and tell her not to bring you any lunch, that you're not hungry. You ask her if she needs anything from the PX and you tell her you'll meet her at her place after work. You watch her walk back to the kitchen and when the door closes you get up and leave.

There isn't much you can say to most Vietnamese girls. Language is a barrier. And without language, communication limits itself to hand and arm signals and perhaps looks. Even the bar girls - they speak the best English - are only temporary relief. You still hope - each time a B-girl asks you to buy her a drink - that it will be different this time. But it never is. You think about that as you wait for Tarn in front of her house in the Catholic district.

You run your hand over the pasteboard wall, but you're careful not to press too hard. You're afraid the wall will break. It has already begun to crumble at one of the corners, and you don't think it will last through the rainy season. You spoke to an army supply sergeant about getting more pasteboard, but he hasn't been able to find any yet. You stare at the strange shadows the heavy tile roof makes in the fading daylight and you wonder how the walls support it. You like the roof. The tile gives it a permanence you miss very much in most things Vietnamese.

You feel something brush against your arm. You are startled and you jump.

"Chao ong, Trang Wi," Tarn says. h.e.l.lo, Lieutenant.

You take her by the arm and when you're inside the house you kiss her very hard on the mouth. You feel her trembling in your arms and you suddenly think how very small and delicate she is - like a little girl.

"Let's go to Nguyen's - by the river," you tell her. It was the first place she took you in Hue - a little restaurant on the Perfume River. You haven't been back since that night.

You have to be off the streets by 2400 - midnight - or the MP's and the Quang Chan - ARVN MP's - will pick you up for breaking curfew. The only other problem is the occasional terrorist grenade. But if you travel by pedicab, you can pull the canopy over far enough so that no one will recognize you. It's a small risk, you think, and worth it.

The street outside Tarn's was paved once, but it hasn't been repaired since the end of World War II. You feel the rocks and broken concrete crunching under your shoes as you walk to the square where the pedicabs wait for pa.s.sengers.

The cab takes you along the bank of the river. The river is low now, before the rains, but it still moves quickly and looks very pretty from the cab. You pa.s.s groups of Vietnamese walking near the river to enjoy its breezes. But they don't notice you. The night smells of cooking rice and nuoc mam and the river. The driver stops in front of Nguyen's, and you count out his fare in piastres and give him a small tip.

The restaurant is made of wood and sits on heavy teak pilings driven into the sh.o.r.e and the river bed.

It may have been painted at one time, but that was long ago. From your table in the corner you can watch the river swirling underneath you. You drink a Beer La Rue and watch the waiters sitting near the door talking softly. You and Tam are the only customers tonight.

Tam sees you watching the waiters and says, "You like Vietnamese?"

You look at her and raise your eyebrows before you nod.

"But you not understand war, really, Trang Wi."

You stare at her.

"You like Vietnamese, but you kill them. You not understand what it like for Americans to kill Vietnamese," she continues.

"What is it like for a Vietnamese to kill an American?" you ask.

She shakes her head. "That different. This is Vietnam."

Thank G.o.d for that, you think to yourself. "But there would be no Vietnam if the Americans weren't here," you tell her. "What would you - a Catholic - do if the Viet Cong ran things?"

She lowers her eyes and looks into her cup of tea. "I know you are right," she says softly, "but you still not understand."

The waiter brings your dinner. The soup is made from creamed asparagus and chicken feet. If you forget the chicken feet the soup is smooth and good. Most Vietnamese find the feet the best part of the soup and spend minutes savoring them. Tam defers to humor you, although it doesn't really bother you.

You each have prawns and a small bowl of steamed rice. You drink another bottle of beer. From your window you can look across the river at a water tower the French built years ago on the outskirts of the old imperial city. It looks stark and surreal in the twilight. The moon is already up and very bright. You watch its reflections riding the currents below you. You have to tell Tarn tonight.

It is very quiet in the cab on the way back to her house. It is dark now and you don't bother to put the canopy up. Tarn fixes you a cup of tea, and you sit on the edge of the bed and drink it. It is hot and very strong and it makes your nose tickle. You like it and the taste it leaves in your mouth after you drink it is sharp and good.

"You have pictures?" she asks. You open your wallet and take out some snapshots that your family sent from home. Tarn likes the pictures and likes to hear you tell of your family in America and your house with its many rooms and your car. You give her the photographs and lean back on the bed. The ceiling is very clean. Tarn doesn't share the Vietnamese acceptance of dirt.

When she returns the pictures you take her hand and draw her down beside you on the bed. You tell her that you have orders back to your outfit and that you must leave Hue tomorrow. You tell her you just found out today and there is no way to change them.

She doesn't say anything. You think she will cry, but she doesn't. She is strong. You tell her you can't spend the night with her, that you have to be back at the MACV compound to leave before the curfew is over for the night. You tell her how very sorry you are that it is over - that it ever had to end. You tell her you will write to her when you get back and that you always want to stay in touch with her - no matter what happens to Vietnam. You give her a hundred dollars worth of pure gold. You bought it for her earlier in the day from a Vietnamese jeweler near the compound. It is worth ten thousand piastres at the current exchange rate and you know she can get twice that if she knows where to trade. You can't really buy your way out, you know. But this helps.

You go to the door. You hold her and kiss her and feel her tears wet on your face.

"I won't forget," you tell her. "I won't forget." You shut the door and walk quickly down the street into the Vietnamese night.

11 THE MEDAL.

You kick the dried mud from your boots and pull aside the door flap of your tent. It is very dark inside and smells musty. You drop your pack on the cot. You have worn the pack so long that you feel strange - free and light - without it. You roll up the sides of the tent and tie them to the wooden frame with strips of canvas. It is a ragged job and looks very unmilitary, but there is a breeze blowing and the moving air is cool. It feels good for an operation to end - even a bad one, even one that cost several men, even one you'll remember for many nights to come.

You aren't supposed to write a man up for a medal when he does his job. Everyone is supposed to do his job. But when enemy mortars splash you with hot metal and enemy machine guns spray you with fire you add something to just doing your job. There's more than heat and fatigue and thirst to overcome. You can experience that on a training maneuver. In combat there is fear, the kind of fear that turns your bowels to water. The kind that paralyzes you and at the same time cries for you to run. The kind that makes the heat and the fatigue and the thirst insignificant. When a man does his job with this fear tearing at him - then he rates a medal.

You take a pad of lined yellow paper and a pencil stub from your footlocker. You untie your boots, kick them off, and set them under your cot. You take a cigar from your pocket. This is the last of a box of Tabacaleras you bought in the Philippines. You smell the cigar and roll it in your mouth. You take out your pocketknife and begin to whittle the pencil point sharp. You don't want to start writing.