Legacy of War

by Ed Marohn

The C-130 hit a pocket of air turbulence, lifting us off of the web seats and interrupting the discussion. The pilots were flying at top air speed to get to Phu Bui before it got too late. ETA at Phu Bui was 2100 hours—a long day for the two of us due to multiple stops, dropping off troops and supplies along the way.

  “Yeah,” Jim said. He stopped staring out the porthole, the evening darkness obscuring the scenery below.

  The C-130 shook again. A storm started outside, and we saw the rain streaks across the portholes. In the mountainous region of I Corps near Phu Bui, the temperatures fluctuated from high humid heat in the day to cold in the evening, sometimes leaving frost in the early morning hours. It rained almost daily in the afternoon, influenced by the China Sea only miles away.

  The I Corps area included the DMZ and the infamous A Shau Valley with its Ho Chi Minh Trail, the supply route for the NVA, entering South Vietnam from the North. The 101st Airborne, with its huge airmobile composition of helicopters, had the unending mission of fighting the NVA around the A Shau Valley and the DMZ. I didn’t realize that night, while the aircraft bucked the turbulent air streams, that my new home for the remainder of my tour would be in or near the A Shau Valley.

  Alexandria, Saturday,

  December 21, 2002

  Jim and I had just finished a light breakfast and sat on the couch in misery, trying to deal with our hangovers from last night, the war stories flowing as we drank. I struggled with the bright sunlight and ignored Jim’s hurt feelings while Kim banged some pots and pans in the kitchen, ensuring we knew that we had little sympathy from her.

  “I’m still pissed at you for not telling me about the fight with Colonel Loan’s goons in Saigon. Why would you wait until now? I thought we had each other’s backs,” he said.

  “Jim, I’m sorry, but at the time I worried about keeping both of us safe from any repercussions of those deaths. The less I said about it, the safer. I also wanted to protect the two MPs who really saved me.”

  He shook his head as he stood up to answer the doorbell. I closed my tired eyes, trying to ignore the new noise of the persistent doorbell chime.

  As the visitors entered, I recognized them as Vietnamese; my year in war embedded their ethnicity in me. They were both about five foot four in height, with thin bodies and neatly cut hair with sidewalls. One looked in his thirties, almost boyish—a trait I found common among most adult males in Nam. His thick black hair glistened. The other man showed older; his white sidewalls and the gray mixed into his dark hair betrayed him to be in his fifties. Both wore expensive dark suits, although my mind flashed back to the older man wearing the OD fatigues of the NVA. He looked familiar.

  My hangover made it difficult to stand while Kim rushed to greet the two at the front door, speaking her native Vietnamese. The older man entered the living room and politely bowed to me, while the youthful one stayed back a few feet scanning the room, barely acknowledging my presence. I noticed the slight bulge on the left side of his suit. I wondered what type of pistol he carried, but he looked as if he could deal with physical danger without it.

  Kim, knowing Jim and I were out of it, invited both men to sit in the matching sofa chairs across from us. In my periphery, I caught the movement of the younger Vietnamese as he moved back to the front door and leaned against it, guarding it. He said something to Kim in Vietnamese, and she nodded. His stern face revealed nothing. I felt that any sudden movement by Jim or me meant a threat; the younger man obviously protected his older associate. Returning my attention to the older gentleman, I waited.

  “Mr. Moore forgive my intrusion, but Mr. Woodruff recommended that I visit you as soon as possible,” the older one said.

  I raised my eyes, confused by him knowing my name.

  As he settled into his chair, I checked him out. We seemed the same age, but unlike me, he still maintained a military bearing. I felt déjà vu, knowing I had seen him somewhere. The old, small scar on his left cheek had the look of a bayonet wound; he had been in combat.

  “How do you know me . . .?” I asked.

  “I felt I could not wait any longer to finally meet you again.” His attempt at smiling seemed genuine, but I remained cautious.

  “Would you like tea or espresso, Colonel?” Kim asked him as she brought my latte to me. She gently placed two aspirin in my palm.

  I murmured, “Thanks.” I gratefully looked into her face. Her beautiful smile assured me that she would be taking care of me today. Jim, however, seemed to be in the doghouse.

  Keeping his eyes on me, the older man said, “Yes, please, an espresso. You are a very gracious host, Kim.” He followed that with a burst of Vietnamese.

  She smiled in response, said a few more words in Vietnamese, and returned to the kitchen. Jim still nursed his cup of coffee. I hoped I didn’t look as hungover as he did. But then, Jim always took things to extremes.

  I whispered to Jim, “You look like hell.”

  “Thanks, buddy,” he grunted. “You don’t look so hot yourself.”

  “I’m confused. You said, ‘to meet me again,’” I said to the older Vietnamese.

  He ignored the question and leaned in toward me, offering his hand. We shook.

  “I am Colonel Zang, the military attaché of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam at the embassy here in Washington, DC.”

  I released his hand, still trying to understand all this.

  “Mr. Moore, you may not remember me, but I was a young NVA lieutenant, aide to Colonel Tin during the American Indochina War, when circumstances forced us together.”

  I had been correct about him being in combat. I searched my memory. During the war I had encountered all sorts of Vietnamese: Montagnards, peasants, South Vietnamese military, and of course the enemy—the VC and NVA. Since he was close to my age and part of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam, he must have confronted me on the battlefield. Zang’s rank and aged eyes expressed a maturity and wisdom from years of war. Dressed in a black, slim-fitted, European-style suit, white shirt, and a bold gold tie, he conveyed authority.

  “I’m sorry, Colonel, I can’t place you,” I said.

  Zang nodded and continued to talk. “When I was assigned to the United States for embassy duty two years ago, I attempted to locate you. I am afraid I was misinformed that you were dead . . . I apologize for being . . . complacent . . . and accepted your death without further investigation.”

  “Moore is a common name. But I am still confused on why you wanted to find me,” I said after another sip of latte.

  He paused as Kim brought him his espresso. She placed it on the table by him.

  “First, how is easier to explain. Your friend Mr. Schaeffer had made inquiries to the CIA about Todd Ramsey. Mr. Schaeffer was discreet using his personal contact, but Mr. Ramsey’s name is red-flagged by my government because of the war crimes he committed while operating the Phoenix Program. Inadvertently, your name came into play.”

  “Hm. I take it that the CIA is cooperating with you as well?”

  “Yes, they are, Mr. Moore.” Zang beamed a confident smile, still holding his secret.

  I sat back, waiting for the rest of the story. Reed’s death seemed to be bringing up much from the past.

  “Now, as to why. My ancestors, my family, and I are in your debt. I hope what I tell you now will allow you to remember. I was a prisoner of war on an American helicopter with you. I believe you were returning to Cam Ranh Bay from the jungles near the A Shau Valley. I memorized your name that day from the name tag sewn on your fatigues.”

  He paused as he looked into my eyes, waiting for my recall. Slight wetness appeared in his eyes.

  “I placed it into my mind.” He then sounded out my name as if he was reading it from that sewn-on tag: “MOORE.” Another pause. “You saved my life!”

  Silence took over the room as I sat looking at Zang. Everyone looked at me, waiting for the next bit
of drama. I now remembered: it was the same daydream I had days ago before I met with Reed in therapy, in which Ramsey had been an integral part.

  I didn’t know Zang by name in the war, but I now recalled a scrawny, beaten-up NVA lieutenant, dressed in green cotton fatigues and spattered with dirt and blood, his left cheek crusted in dried blood from a bayonet slash; the wound was new then. I glanced at his cheek and saw scar tissue hiding some of the deep cut.

  Ramsey had tried to toss Zang out of the Huey at three thousand feet to force cooperation from the other POW, a full NVA infantry colonel. Or so I thought. But I had stopped the CIA agent from killing the young POW.

  I broke the silence and said, “I’m happy that you survived the war, Colonel. And I’m sorry that I didn’t recognize you. It’s been a long time. Unfortunately, unethical actions were conducted by both our countries. I take it that Tin is the name of your colonel onboard the Huey that day.”

  “Yes. And you acted honorably as a soldier,” Zang said, bowing his head slightly toward me.

  When he raised his head, he couldn’t hide the moisture welling up in his eyes. Then, suddenly, catching me off guard, he reached over, offering his hand again. I smiled and returned his handshake. He shook my hand vigorously; his strong grip thrust me back to another time when NVA and American soldiers killed each other:

  The evening monsoon hit hard, hurling rain in a strong, unrelenting downpour; rivulets formed throughout the landing zone, the LZ. My men, wet and tired, struggled in the mud in their firing positions. Their gaunt faces and bloodshot eyes tormented me as they fought both nature and the North Vietnamese pouring in from the surrounding dark forest of bamboo and palms. Visibility dropped in the darkening evening. Bullets sang—the familiar pop, pop, pop of the enemy’s AK-47 rifles countered by the sharp metallic chatter of American M-16s. Both sides shot blindly in the dark hoping to hit their enemy. Another one of my men fell wounded. I shot my .45-caliber pistol, emptying the magazine at the enemy, a group in firing stances approaching me. They fell dead except for one lone survivor, an NVA officer, who stood alone among his dead comrades, a ghostly appearance out of the mist. Suddenly he rushed me, his pistol waving, yelling for others to follow—none were left. We collided and grappled; my pistol knocked out of my hand. I seized his wrist, holding him as I flipped him over me facedown into the mud. I heard a snap. Not releasing him, I dropped to my knees as he struggled to stand. I pulled out my bayonet and sliced down into his back, behind his heart. I turned to see my men still slugging over the wet terrain from one fighting position to another. Then I stared at the dead NVA’s hand, broken at the wrist, fingers splayed, still held firm in my hand.

  I stared at Zang’s hand, my right thumb digging into his wrist. I looked up to see his grimace.

  Kim, seated by Jim now, asked, “John, are you alright?”

  I released his hand and dropped my hand to my lap. A trickle of sweat found its way down my back. I bowed my head as nausea swept my stomach. We should be paying tribute to each other as past enemies in an unneeded war, countries now at peace with each other. Instead we wearily stared at each other. The silence lasted for what seemed minutes.

  “I . . . yes, we are OK,” I said to Kim. Zang rubbing his wrist shook his head to his bodyguard, who I noticed had stepped toward us. The young man slowly returned to his post at the front door. Zang and I were like tired boxers returning to our corners, looking bewildered. I felt sick. I felt my hangover fighting me.

  “I’m sorry, Colonel Zang . . . some . . . past memory . . .” I said, looking away from him.

  The silence became unbearable as I sat, embarrassed. Zang made the peace overture.

  “Mr. Moore, I understand. My own flashbacks of killing in the war still haunts me. You must feel the same.”

  “So long ago, wasn’t it?” I said, fighting the memories that still held me. I took a deep breath to slow myself down as I waited for more, knowing I had intimately killed one of his fellow NVA officers. Yet we were not different—we both had killed, and we both carried the emotional baggage of that war.

  “Yes. We paid dearly for our countries.” He tried a weak smile, concerned.

  “Again, I’m sorry about the grip . . .”

  “Please forget it. I wish to pass on a message of gratitude from Colonel Tin, who thanks you for saving this unworthy aide’s life as well as his. He is over eighty years old but still has strong influence with our party and our government in an advisory capacity. He is anxious to talk to you—in Hanoi.”

  “Hanoi!”

  Zang looked slightly confused at my response, but he proceeded.

  “Before we discuss Hanoi. . . Briefly, my government wishes to close the wounds from the war and help the aging relatives of the war dead have some peace. The CIA’s Phoenix Program killed many Viet Cong freedom fighters—many thousands. There were also many innocent civilians killed or tortured by South Vietnamese officials and Americans such as this Ramsey. We know that Mr. Ramsey is responsible for the killing of over one hundred civilians from the village of Giang in the My Son area. This does not include the unknown number of prisoners of war that he killed—all actions violated the Geneva Convention.”

  “Giang is in the Central Highlands?” I asked.

  Zang smiled slightly, his youthfulness as the young lieutenant sitting on the floor of that Huey showed behind the face lined with the wrinkles of an older man from a war some thirty years ago. His face continued to push me back to my grief over my men who died in combat.

  “You do not disappoint me about your knowledge of Vietnam,” he said, bringing me back. “Ramsey and a corrupt South Vietnamese Army officer—Colonel Loan—and also the American soldier, Reed, targeted the village on a false mission to destroy the VC cell that operated in the area.”

  “Loan was on the helicopter with us,” I said.

  Jim looked at me. “The same guy who ordered the thugs to attack you in Saigon in 1969?” he said.

  Zang gave us a curious look.

  “Last night I told Jim Schaeffer about my first entanglement with Colonel Loan in Saigon, which almost cost me my life due to his agents who pursued me in an alley in 1969.”

  “So you should know that as head of the National Police, he shot a captured and unarmed Viet Cong in the head while on the streets of Saigon during the Tet Offensive in 1968. The international press photo taken of him doing the shooting went worldwide,” Zang said.

  I nodded. “Yes, that would be the same Loan. But Reed wasn’t on the helicopter with Ramsey, Loan, and us that day. Can you confirm that Reed was with Loan and Ramsey at the killing of the villagers?”

  “He was,” Zang said.

  While Colonel Zang talked, my brain again sought the past about the South Vietnamese Army Colonel Loan and the other South Vietnamese Army officer—Colonel Hung—who confronted me because of my decision to call artillery into the No Fire Zone of the Michelin Rubber Plantation.

  Then we sat in silence for several minutes, neither one of us willing to talk first.

  “Mr. Moore, since we can share the past now, I wish to honor you in the present. Would you return to Vietnam to meet with my Colonel Tin?”

  “Why? You already thanked me for Colonel Tin.”

  He seemed to be forming an answer. I sensed he floundered on how to say what he wanted.

  “It would honor the Socialist Republic of Vietnam for you to visit us. I know now your wife has been dead three years, so maybe it is time for you to return to the country that has been the cause of your war memories and pain.”

  I frowned. “I’m not certain that will help. It may cause me more pain.”

  “Then for justice and your duty. What I tell you has to remain a secret,” he said.

  I nodded. My eyes struggled to focus from the alcohol buzz of last night. Suddenly I felt tired. The episode with Zang, Tin, Ramsey, and Loan on the Huey helicopter occur
red a matter of days before I was due to out-process back to the States. The more than 365 days leading up to it, with all the horrors of war, had already tarnished my soul.

  “Colonel Loan is an enemy of the state, and yet he managed to escape to America in 1975 as our glorious army entered Saigon. He was helped to flee out of the city by helicopter, as we now know, by CIA Agent Ramsey.”

  I raised my hands. “I’m not surprised,” I said.

  Jim and Kim listened intently, their eyes on me. For once, Schaeffer had little to say.

  “My mission is to return Loan to our country for trial and imprisonment,” Zang said. His tone was quiet yet forceful.

  “The CIA is helping?”

  “Unofficially,” he answered.

  “But how do I figure into this?” I asked, trying to read his body language. He remained sitting upright, studying me stoically. “If he is to stand trial, how do you get him back to Vietnam? I assume he would be a US citizen now.” I took another deep breath, trying to remove the fog surrounding my brain.

  “We will. That is all I can say. But we need your help, at minimum to be a witness against him based on the helicopter incident.”

  “Zang, I’m not certain,” I said. “I feel you have something else planned.”

  I looked around the room. What had I accomplished coming to DC? Reed was dead. Nothing could change that. Ramsey—well, what did I really know about him? My brief encounter with him in Nam, even as violent as it was, still left him a vague memory after all these years. So why was he in my life again, years after Nam?

  After a light lunch that Kim made, we finished our talks. We all agreed that Zang and Woodruff would return together on Sunday to brief me more. I still planned on leaving DC on Christmas Day. As soon as Colonel Zang and his bodyguard departed, I told Kim and Jim I needed a nap and left them sitting in the living room. Jim continued to look like hell.

  Taking my cell phone out, I sat on the bed and checked for messages. Sally had called while I got drunk last night. It pleased me that she had tried to reach me.