by Ed Marohn
I looked at the street signs to orient myself. The Rex stood at the corner of Le Loi and Nguyen Hue, and I had to go northeast to the Continental Hotel on Tu Do Street. I crossed Nguyen Hue with Lam Son Square on my left, knowing I only had a few blocks to the hotel. As I negotiated the busy night traffic around Lam Son Square, I felt uneasy, as if I was being watched. I stopped on the corner of the square and looked around again. In addition to the Vietnamese scurrying around, I saw two American MPs on patrol approach me. One was a tall, burly black staff sergeant who greeted me with a salute that I returned as they passed and turned right at the corner along Lam Son Square. The staff sergeant’s partner, a buck sergeant, shorter and stocky, resembled an Italian American from New York. They were busy eyeing Vietnamese women as I scanned the crowd; I still sensed someone watching me.
Suddenly I saw them. Across Le Loi Street facing me, three Vietnamese wearing white tropical shirts over their black slacks, concealing any possible weapons, talking and gesturing toward me. Now I had no doubt. The one in the center looked to be five foot eight, tall for a Vietnamese. His two shorter buddies on either side deferred to him for instructions; he had to be their leader. He started to cross the street with his two followers in tow. They focused on me as they swaggered in my direction, not concerned about stalking an American. They had to be Loan’s undercover police agents—thugs under official sanction. The hustling Vietnamese pedestrians cleared a path for them as they walked toward me. I turned to continue on Le Loi Street and then saw a fourth person, same attire, walking directly toward me. They had me blocked from the Continental. I looked around and couldn’t find the MPs who had passed earlier; however, I knew the direction they had taken.
I changed direction to walk along the square and catch up with the MPs, hoping to have them escort me to the hotel. Moving quickly, I kept glancing behind. Only two followed now: the tall one and a shorter Vietnamese. Then I saw the third one paralleling me across the street of the square. I couldn’t see the fourth one and knew that I had made a mistake. I should have returned to the Rex when I first spotted them and then taken a taxi to the Continental Hotel. These guys had me cut off, and I still didn’t see the two MPs.
Walking faster, glancing back again to see what they were doing, I collided with an old man sweeping the sidewalk in front of his shop of silk scarves and clothes. The collision caused a melee as the crowd of people swerved or stopped, some yelling as I bent over to help the old, toothless Vietnamese who blurted, “GI, you dinki duo.” He didn’t need to call me nuts; I felt it.
“I’m sorry, Papa son,” I said and pulled him up. Leaving him standing, I hurriedly walked away.
My new plan focused on getting me to the next street and cutting over toward the Continental, but ahead of me, the fourth one stood. His brash smile sent chills down my back. They had me boxed in. I stopped. My adrenalin surged as I weighed the options for my next move. They had maneuvered me into a trap, but they were still forty feet away; I had room to get away.
I turned around again and headed back to where I had collided with the old man. My revised plan meant a diagonal dash across Lam Son Square for the Rex Hotel—my only hope now. The two following me from behind became confused, seeing me reverse toward them. They stopped, hesitantly, and prepared to hold their ground. A voice stopped me. “You hurry in here, GI,” said the old man I had knocked down earlier.
My other choices had disappeared. Being trapped by Loan’s agents, with no MPs in sight, I ducked through the entrance of the Vietnamese’s silk clothing shop—my instincts told me to trust this frail man. The old man’s thin but strong arms pulled me toward the back of the shop.
A rear door appeared. Opening it, he said, “You hurry. Go this way to Tu Do Street. Maybe find American MPs. Go now.” He shoved me through the door and closed it before I could say thanks. My nerves were frayed. The men chasing me obviously had carte blanche to do anything to me. If they killed me, Hung and Loan could claim the reparation payments without me being an obstacle.
My eyes adjusted to the dark alley littered with rotting fish and produce, creating a bracing stench; its pungency cleared my head. I continued to move. The gloomy alley pointed in the correct direction to merge onto Tu Do Street. I drew the .45 and chambered a round. Hearing voices on the other side of the door, I jogged toward the end of the alley, relieved that I had escaped Loan’s agents. After going twenty feet, I heard the door behind me slam open and two of the thugs rushed through yelling in Vietnamese.
I kept running but I didn’t see the crate in the dark alley and stumbled over it, falling, sliding a few feet on the dirty pavement through the trash, losing my grip on my .45 and hearing its metallic clatter as it disappeared into the darkness. I jumped up, slightly shaken, and saw that escape down the alleyway had been blocked by the third agent outlined by the streetlights. He must have come around the block to close the trap. The two behind me had slowed to a walk; their arrogance pissed me off. I didn’t see the fourth agent anywhere. The three converged on me: The tall one stepped closer with a knife in his hand, while the other two stayed fifteen feet behind him with their knives drawn, forming a semi-circle and closing the trap around me. They planned to kill me.
In seconds I mentally prepared for hand-to-hand combat taught me at Ranger School. The tall Vietnamese stood about five feet from me when I feinted with my eyes to my left, his right. He took the bait and stabbed his knife to his right, anticipating my fleeing in that direction. Countering quickly, I stepped to my right. Both my hands grabbed the opponent’s right wrist and arm thrusting by me, and I turned, shoving my back into him. The momentum and the push up from my legs lifted the attacker up and over me. The Vietnamese sailed to the pavement, slamming to the concrete on his back as I simultaneously twisted his right wrist until it snapped. The man screamed, and his broken wrist caused the release of his knife, clanking onto the pavement. My momentum carried my knees into his chest, collapsing his lungs. Without hesitation, my right fist slammed into his neck, crushing his windpipe.
His screaming stopped; rasping, gurgling, and suffocating, he knew he would die in minutes. Quickly, I spun to face the other two as I scooped up the dying man’s knife and stood now in a crouch. The advantage of surprise shifted to me but for a short time, fleeting by the second. I eyed the remaining two assailants, frozen momentarily and shocked by their leader’s demise. I couldn’t retreat to the shop’s back door because the two effectively blocked me. Slowly and cautiously, the two men regained some composure and closed in on me. Unbuckling my web pistol belt, I wrapped it around my left hand and arm, hoping to parry their knife thrusts with it.
With the captured knife in my right hand, thrust slightly forward, I waited for their attack, knowing that I had bettered my chances of survival. Suddenly a blurred shadow appeared, accompanied by a sickening, crunching thud as the attacker on my right collapsed, his cracked skull spattering blood on his companion. As the now lone assailant jerked back, seeing his buddy collapse, a baton smashed across his face; his nose exploded with a gush of blood as he dropped, joining his downed comrades on the alley floor.
A voice from the dark kept repeating, “You OK, Captain?” The black MP staff sergeant appeared with his hand out for the knife in my grip. “I don’t think you need that anymore, sir. Talk to me . . .”
My mind in a trance and my back to a building, I stood frozen, my hand releasing the knife to the MP. The alley’s normal stench reappeared, but now with a new smell: the coppery tang of blood seeping from the downed assailants. I knew they were dead.
“Sir say something. Are you in shock?” The Italian American MP buck sergeant stared, shining his flashlight into my eyes. I slowly took a deep breath, realizing I had escaped death. I shuddered, feeling a chill. Seeing the two Americans next to me, I finally relaxed. My dry mouth wouldn’t move; both MPs nodded as they stepped in to support me.
“You’ll be OK now. You had a close call. Percy, look
in the gooks’ pockets and see what IDs they have.”
The buck sergeant startled me with his harsh response. “Fuck you, Charles. You, black bastard. Don’t use Percy. I hate that name.” He smiled, bent down, and went through the pockets of the three bodies. “Son of a bitch, these fuckers belong to Colonel Loan—his special agents of the Saigon Police. Fuckers are definitely dead.”
“I guess we just killed three VC.” Charles pulled out a black-and-white checkered scarf and kneeled over the tall one that I had killed. He tied the scarf around the neck. “There—a fucking dead VC. Percy, you keep their IDs. We’ll trash them at the base.”
“Shit, Captain, how did you piss off Loan?” Percy asked while nodding in response to Charles.
Unwrapping my pistol belt from my hand and arm, I slowly explained about Colonels Hung and Loan and their confrontation with me over the reparation money for the No Fire Zone.
Both MPs nodded their heads. Percy found my dropped .45, wiped off some rotting vegetables, and returned it to me. “Looks like it’s not damaged. You should work the slide to make sure.”
I pulled out the magazine from the handle and jerked the slide back, ejecting the chambered round. Charles caught it in midair.
“Nice catch,” I said.
Chuckling, Percy turned to his partner. “Charles, you crushed the skulls of the last two—your baton is deadly.”
“That’s a fact—the stick can be lethal,” the black sergeant said. “Percy, you escort this fine young officer to his billets while I will call my man at ARVN MPs. He’s looking to make his quota of dead VCs. This will make him happy. Also, we won’t have any questions about their deaths. I mean, we can’t go around admitting we killed Loan’s people.”
“Won’t there be . . . issues?” I asked.
“Nah, not with this crooked regime. How do you think these Saigon agents get away with murder and extortion? If the citizens don’t cooperate, they’re labeled VC and their asses are hauled off to prison. Loan tortures the shit out of anyone who is in his way. Even if they’re not VC. Some great allies we have, huh?”
“That’s why they weren’t concerned about going after me on the streets? They would have blamed my death on VC?”
“You got it, Captain,” Percy said.
I looked down at the three dead men again, and at the moment I felt little remorse for killing the tall Vietnamese. Raising my eyes from the grisly scene at my feet, I asked, “How did you find me here?”
“The shop owner ran us down and told us about an American captain in danger from police agents. The local Vietnamese hate these SOBs. Ya know, the extortion, the intimidation. You owe him the thanks. He led us back to his shop and we took over from there.”
“I’m John Moore,” I said, extending my hand, taking another deep breath.
“Charles Smith at your service, sir. And my sidekick is Percy Barone, better known as Leftie. He hates me using his birth name, Percy. Claims it’s a fag name—but I still do, just to piss him off.”
“You know, Charles, you’re one sorry fucker. If I didn’t like you, I would have fragged your ass long ago,” Sergeant Barone said, smiling at his own warped sense of humor.
My memory kicked in. “There was a fourth guy working with these three.”
“He’s in the shop. Must have sneaked in after the old man chased us down. His sons took care of him. We better go. Percy will get you back safely.” Charles put his hand on my shoulder, guiding me.
We turned and headed to the shop’s rear door. As we entered, the old man greeted us, a relieved smile on his face. “You OK, GI?” he asked, bowing slightly to me.
“Yes. Thank you.” I returned the bow, pulled out my wallet, looking for piastres to give him.
He stopped me, placing his hand on mine, shaking his head. “No, no money, it OK.”
I was spent and didn’t argue. The old man smiled again, pointed to a small stairway leading to the second floor, and led us upstairs.
We entered a large room, barely lit, with several single-size mattresses on the floor. An old woman squatted by a small charcoal burner, heating a pot of tea. Behind her were two muscular young men. In the far corner, the fourth thug was trussed up, hands and feet bound with OD nylon rope, mouth gagged with a dirty rag. He was unconscious and his bruises explained it.
Smith whispered something to the old man, who nodded and pointed to the two younger men.
Barone leaned into me and said, “Those are his sons. They’ll get rid of that gook for us.”
“But . . .” I started to object.
“No other way, sir. He’s a dead man. It’s them or him. I think they prefer him dead,” Barone said.
The old woman poured several cups of tea. She offered me the first cup. Bowing, I thanked her and took the tea; it was hot, fragrant, and soothing. I needed it. My two American companions helped themselves; they were obviously regulars of the old man’s shop.
Barone finally said, “We need to get you out of here so Charles can deal with this mess.”
I handed the cup back to the old lady and bowed to her again. Her smile exposed her bad teeth, darkened by years of chewing betel nuts, a common habit of villagers in the countryside. The peasants worked hard eking out a living, and to make it bearable they chewed the nut, a psychoactive substance that produced an energy boost through its natural alkaloids, which released adrenaline. But it also badly stained the teeth.
Shaking the old man’s hand again, I hurried downstairs to the front entrance where Barone waited. He had already hailed a taxi.
The taxi took us to the Continental Hotel. My feelings over the incident were still in chaos as I sat in the back seat next to Barone.
Barone asked, “Are you sure you’re not Italian?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, you fought like a street hood from Jersey. Did good!”
“Thanks, but I don’t want to get in that situation again.”
“Aw, shit, all in a day of war in Nam. You’ll be OK. Listen, as you heard, I go by the nickname Leftie rather than Percy. Shit, I hate the name Percy. I don’t know what my mom was thinking when she named me. Charles’s the only one that can use that fucking name.”
“Why do you let him?”
“Ya see, we’re good friends and have survived these streets. Fucking Saigon is dangerous. It’s our bonding.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” I said.
The hotel appeared and the driver pulled over to the curb by the lobby entrance. As I got out and paid the driver, Barone asked, “What are your plans tomorrow?”
“I’m catching a flight with another officer to Phu Bui. We’ll leave the hotel no later than noon after a late breakfast.”
“My black buddy and I will be here to cover you. We’ll probably be drinking coffee on the veranda—just to be sure you get off safely. OK?”
“Thanks.”
“Just keep your door locked and the .45 near you tonight. And don’t acknowledge us tomorrow—we’ll be watching, though. Also don’t tell anyone of this. The less who know, the better.”
I nodded at our necessary conspiracy. We shook hands through the taxi’s open rear window. Barone and the taxi drove off. The ordeal had ended.
I made it to the room after checking the lobby and the hallways. My watch said 2200 hours. Exhausted, I entered my room and locked the door. I also butted the desk chair against it. I stripped and threw myself onto the bed, placing my .45 under the pillow with its safety on and a round chambered. Thoughts of the fight rampaged in my mind as I drifted off to sleep.
Later I woke up nauseous, my stomach aching. Getting out of bed, I saw that my watch showed midnight. I wiped my moist forehead and rushed to the bathroom. Stuffing my head into the toilet bowl, I vomited. I had killed a human being with my hands.
Suffering from a hangover, Schaeffer dozed in the web seat across fr
om me in the C-130 as it began to taxi on the Ben Hoa Airport runway, preparing for takeoff and headed for Phu Bui.
At our late breakfast, Jim told me of his night with a prostitute while I acted captivated by his erotic tale. Even his hangover didn’t curtail his storytelling.
While he talked, I tried to rationalize what I had done. My self-defense justified the killing, but the thug’s death gnawed at me. I had already killed in combat. But this seemed different. I hoped my transfer to I Corps would take me away from the intrigue and corruption associated with Hung and Loan.
Schaeffer never noticed Sergeants Smith and Barone on the veranda drinking coffee, reading the Stars and Stripes newspaper, occasionally glancing our way with disinterest. As agreed, I didn’t acknowledge them.
The aircraft’s engines revved louder as it lumbered down the runway, gaining speed and finally taking off. I smiled at Schaeffer’s sleeping form as the aircraft rose above the ground. Soon we both would be commanding infantry companies, and I knew that my killing would continue.
I couldn’t sleep due to the noisy, vibrating air force cargo plane, and I resorted to looking out my porthole at the gorgeous country below. The manicured and flooded rice paddies glimmered in the sun, blending with the forests and jungles. We flew over 500-pound bomb craters created by air force B-52 bombing runs, the ground pock-marked with craters full of turquoise-colored water, filled quickly with the water-saturated soil after the bombs exploded. However, some craters looked less appealing; water, mud, and dead bodies mixed, creating pools of brownish red.
Over the Central Highlands, I enjoyed a splendid aerial view of isolated Montagnard villages plugged into the forests, blending with the foliage and mountainous terrain.
“I’m glad we have sister companies to command in the same battalion,” Jim said, stretching and yawning awake.
I gazed at Jim and said, “The high attrition of captains certainly helped us get commands.”
