Up Country (11 page)

After my leave, I returned to Fort Hadley and Whispering Pines, and I discovered from a neighbor that Patty had lied about there not being anyone else—surprise! It turned out to be another soldier, and she’s probably on her fourth or fifth by now. There’s something about a man in uniform.

But things work out, and within a few months, I was back into a work routine on post and bought a nice yellow VW bug from a guy who was heading to ’Nam. The army doesn’t give you a lot of time to sulk or contemplate the meaning of life, and they don’t encourage you to talk about your personal problems. The army expression is “Got a personal problem? Go see the chaplain, and he’ll punch your tough-shit ticket.”

That was the old army, of course. The new army has trained counselors who’ll talk to you before punching your tough-shit ticket.

But it makes a man out of you, and you learn to keep shit to yourself. And that’s the way it should be if you’ve picked this life.

I
was drawn back to the present by the sight of an open truck approaching the aircraft. This was our escort vehicle, a variation on the little truck with the revolving light that you see at most airports.

We followed the truck to the terminal, but we didn’t actually get right to a gate. We stopped on the apron, and the engines shut down. We had arrived.

It was still raining, and below I saw a line of young ladies holding umbrellas, which I guess is cheaper than a mobile jetway. I also saw a few soldiers standing under a corrugated steel canopy, carrying AK-47s. Two men rolled a stairway toward the aircraft.

As I stared out the window, my mind flashed back to Tan Son Nhat Airport, November 1967, my first tour.

W
e had landed just before dawn, and as I stepped out of the air-conditioned Braniff 707, a blast of hot, humid air hit me, which was surprising at that predawn hour in November, and I recalled thinking it was going to be a long year for a guy who liked autumn and winter in Boston.

A few hundred American soldiers had been standing on the tarmac behind a rope, wearing short-sleeve khakis, carrying overnight bags, and staring up at the aircraft. The Braniff 707 that had brought me to Vietnam would be quickly refueled, and without even changing the crew, the aircraft would take these guys home.

When I came down the stairway into the predawn light, I had to pass the guys behind the rope. I could clearly recall the looks on their faces; most appeared anxious, like this wasn’t going to come off like it should, but there were a few optimists who looked happy or excited.

A few of these homeward-bound men shouted out words of encouragement to the fresh meat, others shouted things like “You’re gonna be sorreee!” or “It’s a
long
year, suckers!”

As I looked closer at these guys, I noticed that some of them—who I realized later were the combat vets who’d seen too much—had this strange, faraway stare that I’d never seen before, but which I got familiar with later; this was my first clue that this place was worse than I’d imagined it from stories I’d heard, or from what I’d seen on the TV news.

M
y French companion brought me back to the present by saying, “What is so interesting out there?”

I turned away from the window and replied, “Nothing.” Then I said, “I was just recalling my first landing here.”

“Yes? This time should be more pleasant. No one is trying to kill you.”

I wasn’t completely sure of that, but I smiled.

A bell chimed, and everyone stood to deplane. I got my overnight bag from the overhead compartment, and within a few minutes I was on the aluminum staircase where the smiling young ladies held umbrellas over everyone’s heads. At the bottom of the staircase, I was handed an open umbrella, and I followed the line of passengers in front of me to the terminal, under the watchful eyes of the soldiers under the corrugated canopy.

My first sense of the place was the long forgotten smell of the rain, which did not smell like the rain in Virginia. A soft breeze carried the odor of burning charcoal, along with the rich and pungent smell of the surrounding rice paddies, a mixture of dung, mud, and rotting vegetation, a thousand layered years of cultivation.

I had returned to Southeast Asia, not in a dream or a nightmare, but in reality.

Inside the terminal, a lady took my umbrella, and motioned me to follow the others, as if I might have other plans.

I passed through a doorway into the International Arrival Terminal, a cavernous space that had the air of neglect and a sense of abandonment. The place was completely empty, except for my fellow passengers. Half the lights were out, and there was not one single electronic information screen, or any signs at all, for that matter. I was also struck by how quiet it was—no one speaking, and no PA system. Compared to the aircraft, the terminal was very humid, and I realized there was no air-conditioning, which wasn’t a problem in January, but must be interesting in August.

As it turned out, however, this primitive facility was going to be the least of my problems.

Directly in front of me was a line of Passport Control booths, and beyond the booths I could see a single luggage carousel, motionless and empty. There were no porters visible, no luggage carts, and strangely, no Customs stations. More strangely, no one was waiting for any of the arriving passengers, most of whom were Vietnamese and should have had people eagerly expecting their arrival. Then I noticed that there were soldiers at the glass exit doors, and beyond the doors were crowds of people peering through the glass. Apparently, no visitors were allowed in the Arrival Terminal, which was weird. In fact, this whole place was weird.

I walked up to one of the passport booths and handed the uniformed guy my passport and visa. I looked at him, but he never made eye contact with me. He seemed interested in my passport and visa.

I looked again into the cavernous terminal beyond the booths and saw, hanging from the ceiling at the far end of the terminal, a huge red flag with a yellow star in the center—the flag of the victorious North Vietnamese Communists. The full reality of the Communist victory struck me, a quarter century late, but with unmistakable clarity.

When I landed at Tan Son Nhat in ’67 and ’72, soldiers didn’t go through the civilian terminal, but I recalled that outside the terminal was the Stars and Stripes flying alongside the old red, green, and yellow South Vietnamese flag. No one had seen either of those flags around here in over two decades.

I had a creepy feeling, which was reinforced by the Passport Control guy, who kept staring at my passport and visa. I realized he was taking too long, and people in the other booths were passing through more quickly. At first, I just put this down to my usual bad luck of getting in a supermarket checkout line where the cashier was the village idiot.

But then the passport guy picked up a phone and began talking to someone. I could only remember a few words of Vietnamese, but I clearly heard him say the word My—American. This is not in and of itself a negative word, but you had to consider the context. I affected a look of bored impatience, which was lost on the passport guy.

Finally, another uniformed Vietnamese appeared, a short, stocky guy who took my passport and visa from the guy in the booth, and motioned me through. I picked up my overnight bag and followed him.

Standing on the other side of the line of passport booths was my French friend, who had passed through at least five minutes before with no problem. He seemed to be waiting for me, then noticed that I had an escort. He raised his eyebrows and said something in Vietnamese to my escort. The uniformed guy answered back sharply. The Frenchman, too, raised his voice, and they had a little argument, but the Frenchman didn’t seem cowed by the Commie in uniform.

The Frenchman said to me, in English, “I think this is only a random questioning. Be polite, but firm. If you have nothing to hide, it will go well.”

Actually, I had something to hide. I said to my new friend, “See you at Mademoiselle Dieu-Kiem’s.”

The short, tubby Viet guy gave me a push, which pissed me off so much I almost clocked him. But I got myself under control. The mission comes first. Clocking Commies was not part of the mission this time.

As I turned to follow the Viet, I heard the Frenchman say, “It is quite different now that neither your country nor mine is the power here.
They
have the power.”

So off I went with this little guy in uniform, whose hat had a big red Commie star on the peak. Last time I was here, I had an M-16, and
I
had the power, and if I’d seen this guy then, I’d have painted him as red as that star.

I realized I was getting myself wound up, so as I walked with this guy through the nearly deserted terminal, I calmed myself down with a mental image of me with my hands around Karl’s throat.

It occurred to me that there were three possibilities at the end of this walk. One, whoever it was I was going to talk to would kick me out of the country. Two, I’d be free to visit the Socialist Republic and do my sightseeing. Three, I’d wind up in the slammer.

I realized I might have some control over these possibilities, depending on what I said. I’m pretty good at bullshit.

We got to the far end of the terminal and came to a closed door, which my Commie companion opened, and which led to a long hallway lined with doors. The hallway was narrow, so my friend got behind me and prodded me again with a push. I could have broken his fat neck in a heartbeat, but then I wouldn’t know what door I was supposed to go through.

He grabbed my arm halfway down the hall, then knocked on a door. The voice behind the door barked, “Di Vao.”

My pushy friend opened the door, thumped his hand on my shoulder, and I entered the room. The door closed behind me.

I
found myself in a hot, dimly lit room whose stucco walls were the color of nicotine. In fact, the air smelled of cigarette smoke. The room was small and windowless, and a paddle fan hung motionless from the ceiling.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw on the far wall a portrait of Ho Chi Minh and a small red flag with a yellow star in the center. I could also see a photo of a guy in uniform, who I thought might be General Giap, and a few photos of unsmiling civilians, who were undoubtedly government or Party officials. I concluded that this was not the Travelers’ Aid Office.

There was a desk to my right and behind the desk was a middle-aged man in uniform. He said to me, “Sit.”

I sat in an olive drab chair that I recognized as an American army camp chair. The desk, too, was American; the standard gray steel that hasn’t changed since about World War II. On the wall above the desk was a big ventilation louver, and I could hear the rain falling outside.

The guy who had shown me into the office, who I’d nicknamed Pushy, deposited my passport and visa on the desk, then, without a word, he took my overnight bag and left.

The middle-aged guy in uniform studied my passport and visa by the light of a gooseneck lamp. I studied the guy.

He had on an olive-colored short-sleeve shirt with shoulder boards, and on the boards, he wore the rank of a major or colonel—I never could get the foreign insignia straight. Also, he had three rows of colored ribbons on
his left breast pocket, and I assumed some of those dated back to the American War, as they called the Vietnam War here.

He had one of those faces that you instinctively don’t like—pinched and perpetually frowning, with high, prominent cheekbones. His eyes were narrow, and his eyeballs seemed fixed in their sockets.

He looked older than me, but I knew he wasn’t. In any case, he was the right age to be a veteran of the American War, and if he was, he had no positive feelings about Americans. I assumed, too, he was a North Vietnamese because he looked a little bigger and heavier than the southerners, who were slight of build. Also, it was mostly the North Viets who staffed the positions of power in the defeated south. My instincts told me this was not going to be a pleasant interview.

The guy looked up from my passport and said to me, “I am Colonel Mang.”

I didn’t reply. But the fact that he was indeed a full colonel led me to believe this wasn’t a simple passport and visa check.

Colonel Mang, in good English, asked me, “What is the purpose of your visit to the Socialist Republic of Vietnam?” He had a kind of high, staccato voice that was irritating.

I replied, “Tourism,” which was the lie from which all future lies would spring. And if this guy knew it was a lie, then he’d let me keep lying until he had enough lies to make a noose.

“Tourism,” said Colonel Mang. He stared at me. “Why?”

I replied, “I was a soldier here.”

Suddenly Colonel Mang’s demeanor changed from unpleasant to overly interested. Maybe I should have ignored my instructions and lied about that, but it’s really important to stick close to the truth.

Colonel Mang asked me, “When were you here?”

“In 1968, then again in 1972.”

“Two times. So you were a career military man.”

“I became a career military man.”

He tapped my visa and said, “Now you are retired.”

“That’s right.”

Colonel Mang thought a moment and asked me, “And what were your duties in Vietnam?”

I hesitated a half-second too long, then replied, “I was a cook. An army cook.”

Colonel Mang seemed to mull this over. He asked, “And where were you stationed?”

“In 1968 I was stationed at An Khe. In 1972 at Bien Hoa.”

“Yes? An Khe. The First Cavalry Division.”

“That’s right.”

“And Bien Hoa. What division?”

“I was a cook at the replacement center mess hall.”

“Yes?” Colonel Mang lit a cigarette and drew thoughtfully on it. Finally, he informed me, “I was a lieutenant with Division 325 of the People’s Army of Vietnam.”

I didn’t reply.

Colonel Mang continued, “I was an infantry platoon commander. In 1968, my regiment operated around Hue and Quang Tri. There were units of your division there as well. Were you ever stationed in that area?”

Again, sticking to the truth, but against my better judgment, I replied, “I was near Hue and Quang Tri a few times.”

“Yes? Cooking?”

“That’s right.” I thought that this could be a pleasant conversation between two veterans, except for the fact that we had once been trying to kill each other.

Colonel Mang smiled for the first time and said, “Since our time there coincided, perhaps we once met.”

Somewhat intemperately, I replied, “If we had met, Colonel, only one of us would be here now.”

Colonel Mang smiled again, but it was not a nice smile. He said, “Yes, that is true.” He stared at me awhile, then remarked, “You don’t seem to me like a cook.”

I considered offering him my recipe for two hundred servings of chili, but instead I said, “I’m not sure what you mean, Colonel.”

Colonel Mang puffed on his cigarette and seemed to be staring into the past. I had to assume he was used to questioning American veterans. I assumed, too, he enjoyed his job. What he was after, and what he knew, was another matter.

Colonel Mang said to me, “Many American soldiers have returned.”

“I know.”

We both sat quietly as Colonel Mang enjoyed his cigarette. I wasn’t particularly uneasy, and so far this seemed like just a random stop and question,
a case of profiling, but I really didn’t like being on the answering side of an interrogation desk.

Colonel Mang asked me, “And what is this interest in coming back to Vietnam?”

I replied, “I’m sure each man has his own reason.”

“Yes? And what is
your
reason?”

Well, I was working undercover for the United States government to investigate a strange murder case. But Colonel Mang didn’t need to know that. In fact, this question had Zen overtones to it, so I replied, “I think after my visit here, I’ll know the answer to that question.”

He nodded appreciatively, as though this was the only possible answer.

Colonel Mang now got down to specific questions that needed non-Zen answers. He asked me, “Are you staying in Ho Chi Minh City?”

I replied, “I’m staying in Saigon.”

This honked him off, and he informed me, “There is no Saigon.”

“I saw it from the air.” Why do I piss people off? What is wrong with me?

Colonel Mang fixed me with a cold stare and said, “Ho Chi Minh City.”

I recalled Mr. Conway’s and the Frenchman’s advice to be firm but polite. How can you be both? But I backed off and said, “Right. Ho Chi Minh City.”

“Correct. And how long are you staying there?”

“Three days.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Rex.”

“Yes? The American Generals’ Hotel.”

“I always wanted to see where the generals stayed.”

Mang gave me a little sneer and said, “They lived in luxury while their soldiers lived and died in the jungles and rice paddies.”

I didn’t reply.

He continued his political education lesson and said, “Our generals lived with us and shared the hardships. My general had no more rice than I did. He lived in a simple peasant’s hut. Your generals at An Khe base camp had air-conditioned house trailers from America. I saw these with my own eyes when we liberated the south. Did you not see these at An Khe?”

“I did.”

“And there was a golf course for the officers.”

“Only nine holes,” I reminded him. “And your snipers and mortar guys made it a tough course.”

He actually laughed, then got himself under control and said, “And I am sure you cooked better food for the officers.”

“No, everyone got the same food.”

“I do not believe that.”

“Well, it’s true. Ask the next veteran you speak to.”

Colonel Mang didn’t want any of his prejudices upset, so he changed the subject and asked me, “What rank did you retire with?”

“Warrant officer.”

“Yes? So, how much did they pay you?”

Recalling that Mr. Conway said the average Vietnamese made three or four hundred dollars a year, I was a little embarrassed to reply, “About forty-five hundred dollars.”

“A month. Correct?”

“Right. You already know this, so why are you asking? And what is the purpose of these questions?”

Colonel Mang did not like my retort, but like most Vietnamese, he kept his cool.

He hit an intercom button and said something in Vietnamese. A few seconds later, the door opened and Pushy came in.

Colonel Mang and Pushy exchanged a few words, and Pushy handed Mang the stupid snow globe, that being the only thing in my overnight bag that had obviously confused him.

Mang examined the snow globe, and Pushy said something, so Mang shook it and watched it snow on the Vietnam Memorial. He looked up and asked me, “What is this?”

“It’s the Vietnam War Memorial. A souvenir.”

“Why do you have this with you?”

“It was a gift at the airport.”

“Yes?” He stared at the globe and shook it again. I would have laughed, but Mang might think I was laughing at him.

Mang said, “Yes, I recognize this. The names of your dead are carved on this wall. Fifty-eight thousand. Correct?”

“That’s right.”

He informed me, “We have one million dead.”

I replied, “The north and the south each had one million dead. That’s two million.”

He said, “I do not count the enemy.”

“Why not? They were also Vietnamese.”

“They were American puppets.” Colonel Mang put the globe on his desk and said to me, “Please empty all your pockets on my desk. Everything.”

I had no choice but to comply, so I put my wallet on his desk, along with the envelopes in my jacket pocket, and also my pen, comb, handkerchief, and Tic Tacs. I held on to the addresses the Frenchman had given me.

Colonel Mang first went through my wallet, which held some American currency, credit cards, retired military ID card, with rank but no occupation, medical card, and my Virginia driver’s license.

Next, he went through the things from my jacket, giving the pen, comb, handkerchief, and Tic Tacs a cursory inspection. Then he opened the envelopes with American money, Vietnamese money, and traveler’s checks. Next he opened the envelope that held my airline tickets, then the envelope with my hotel vouchers. He studied everything and made notes on a piece of paper. As he was writing, he said something in Vietnamese, and Pushy replied. They both seemed interested in the amount of money I had, which represented a few years’ salary for both of them. Obviously, there is no justice in the world when the defeated enemy could return to the scene of his defeat loaded down with cash.

Anyway, Pushy said something sharply to me in Vietnamese, then repeated it, which made him laugh. The Vietnamese are worse than Americans in regard to their impatience with people who don’t speak their language. I tried to remember a Vietnamese word or two, like “Fuck you,” but I was tired, and it wasn’t coming back to me.

Finally, Pushy left the room and forgot to take the snow globe with him. Mang continued working on his notes, then looked up at me and said, “You have reservations at the Century Riverside Hotel in Hue, and the Metropole in Hanoi.”

I didn’t reply, and this seemed to tick him off.

He lit another cigarette and said, “Please take your things off my desk,” as though I had annoyed him by depositing everything there.

I gathered my wallet and envelopes, odds and ends, and put them in my pockets. I noticed that Mang held on to my passport and visa. I said, “If that’s all, Colonel, I’d like to get to my hotel.”

“I will tell you when and if we are finished, Mr. Brenner.”

That was the first time he’d used my name, and he wasn’t being polite; he was telling me he knew my name, my addresses in Vietnam, my departure date, and the contents of my wallet, and so forth.

He said to me, “You have some days between your hotel reservation in Ho Chi Minh City and Hue.”

“That’s right.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Certainly you will go to An Khe.”

I might have, but not now. I said, “If it’s possible.”

“It is not a problem. However, part of your old base camp is a restricted area, used now by the People’s Army.”

“Including the air-conditioned house trailers?”

He didn’t respond to that, but said, “The town of An Khe is not restricted. However, the brothels and massage parlors are all closed as are the bars and opium dens.”

“Well, that’s good news.”

“Yes? You are happy that Dodge City is closed? That is what you called that district—correct? Built by your own engineers.”

“Never heard of it.”

Colonel Mang all of a sudden turned nasty and said to me, “Moral pollution. Degeneracy. That’s why you lost the war.”

I wasn’t going to let him bait me, so I didn’t reply.

Colonel Mang went on awhile about American imperialism, Agent Orange, the My Lai massacre, the bombing of Hanoi, and a few other things that even I wasn’t familiar with.