Legacy of War

by Ed Marohn

  “Mr. Moore, when you fought us, I had the pleasure of encountering you twice.”

  “I’m not certain I remember more than once,” I said, my interest piqued.

  “Ah, yes. There was, of course, the helicopter situation in which you saved my young lieutenant, now Colonel Zang, and me as well. For that I owe you my gratitude. During the Tet ceremonies this year, we will honor your name with our ancestors for your noble, kind deed.” He smiled and continued. “I have many relatives, many grandchildren, aunts, uncles, and of course, my wife and my four sons. You helped preserve our familial line. It will be a great event for us since you are also here. I would be honored for you to celebrate here with us. Agent Hieu will ensure the arrangements for that.”

  Hieu, still as serious as when I first met her at the airport, spoke respectfully to Tin. I heard the name Loan, Ramsey, and Hung in her discourse. He responded kindly, as if she were his own daughter and not a police agent. She turned to me. “The Tet is February 1 through the third, but as I explained, you and I may be busy looking for Loan and the American, Ramsey. We may not be available. We will see.”

  More tea was brought, this time by an old but elegant woman whom Tin introduced as his wife. She bashfully bowed to me and studied me, showing both respect and a motherly kindness. Taking a long time serving the tea, she finally departed to the back of the house, as the granddaughter did earlier, still sneaking glances at me. I wondered how many more people were scattered in this house, curious to see me, the former American officer who had met the colonel in the war. I heard children’s voices as they played behind the house. As I sipped the strong tea, or tra, I reflected on how my Katy loved her teas. My addiction to coffee began after her death—another change of life.

  “I apologize for shifting from subject to subject, but you would not have known the second time we encountered each other. You were in the strategic hamlet of Mai Loc Village when I attacked with my regiment. You commanded C Company of the 101st Airborne, and your frontal assault surprised us and threw us back. Afterward, I reviewed the order of battle intelligence and remembered your name listed as the commander. It was your strong counterattack that threw us into a quagmire, which eventually led to my capture, along with my young aide, Zang, several weeks later.” He took a sip of tea, looking through me into that past battle. “And you know the rest when you bordered that helicopter for your return to America and found us onboard as POWs. I was not only shocked to see your name tag on your jungle fatigues, but even more so by your actions to stop Agent Ramsey from killing Zang and me.”

  Impressed, my mind swept back to that battle. I had developed a defense plan upon being airlifted in with my company two days prior to the NVA attack. It relied on friendly Montagnard warriors to serve as recon and reserve troops for quick response to fill any gaps that the ARVNs would create if they panicked and retreated. These aborigines were ruthless fighters who hated the Vietnamese and loved the Americans, and they would do anything to help us in the war. We, in turn, provided medical support and food supplies for their loyalty.

  We were almost overrun by the tenacious and fierce NVA soldiers, but in the end, we held our ground with the support of the Montagnards, the remnants of the ARVN companies forced to fight or die, and the air force’s tactical air fighters. Tin’s troops fought long and hard but had reached exhaustion. I finally ordered a counterattack with all my platoons on line, forcing the NVA retreat.

  “Because of that day, I seem to have been drawn to following you,” I said, showing a weak smile.

  Tin’s inquisitive eyes drew me to explain.

  “I knew you had escaped from the POW stockade. And in 1975, during language training at the Foreign Service Institute in Washington, DC, in preparation for my assignment to NATO in the Netherlands, I learned of the final chapter in your almost thirty years of war. The TVs and newspapers were abuzz with the collapse of Saigon as the US Embassy started evacuation while marines secured the building’s roof for American helicopters to airlift the fortunate few. Blocks away in Saigon, on April 30, 1975, I think, the South Vietnamese government fell when you rode on a T-34 Russian/Chinese-made tank onto the Presidential Palace grounds. As the senior NVA officer, you accepted the surrender from General Duong Van Minh, representing the defeated South Vietnam, while President Thieu, America’s chosen head, fled to Taiwan.”

  I sat back, pondering why I shared my knowledge of him. I noticed Tin’s inward focus. He had returned to those last few days of the war.

  Agent Hieu must have been puzzled as we talked, but she undoubtedly felt our emotions. We lapsed into silence as Tin and I sat, studying each other, reflecting on the war, its pain, the loss of so many comrades-in-arms, and the guilt of living while others died. The moment became spiritual as we honored each other and our dead.

  Finally, Tin stood and, using his cane, walked to a small window overlooking the rice paddies that butted against his small property. He gestured for us to stand by him, brushing something from his eyes.

  “Mr. Moore, I am glad you came. My country needs your help to capture Loan in case our agents in Cambodia fail. There are some powerful men in our Communist Party who oppose any further trade agreements with your country. With you, an American, helping us with the capture of Colonel Loan, we hope to reduce that opposition. It is politics but also a healing process for our people. I have already summarized your noble actions on that fateful helicopter ride to the leadership of the party. Your support and help in this will help further economic growth with your nation.”

  “I see,” I said. But did I really? DuPee Catton’s death gnawed at me.

  “When you interrogate Colonel Hung, who is in a reeducation prison, please discover more about Loan’s entry into Vietnam. In turn, our government is willing to consider giving Hung his freedom for his remaining worthless years of life.”

  “I will try, but I just don’t know how this will help.”

  “Nevertheless, you have agreed to try,” Tin said. “I want Loan captured.”

  I hesitated at his command. “Yes, of course. We help you with Loan, and you in turn will provide payback to the CIA by capturing Ramsey.” I wanted his acknowledgement.

  His eyes avoided me. He smiled, trying to deflect. His façade held, but I sensed he hid something. “Of course, there is no guarantee that Ramsey will survive.” His eyes locked with mine, a deadly look, telling me much.

  And just as quickly, he changed direction. “You must know I picked Hieu especially for this mission, as she is modern Vietnamese and has tempered any hatred for Americans, unlike some of my older comrades. You can trust her. She is strong and very intelligent. The two of you, with any support you need from me, will be the key to the mission. Start with Hung in prison. He is a traitor to Vietnam and a liar, but you will have no problem obtaining the truth from him. Your dossier as a psychologist is impressive. Colonel Zang has researched your career very extensively. Our reeducation process is just weak brainwashing, and good liars can escape telling the truth.” Tin reached and squashed a small mosquito buzzing on the window glass. “So many of my comrades died of malaria in the war.” He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped away the dead remains.

  “I was told that Loan and Ramsey’s reason for returning to Vietnam was due to hidden moneys and Champa artifacts,” I said, probing for more truth.

  Tin paused as a pained expression appeared on his wrinkled face. “I feel the recovery of stolen gold and Champa artifacts is not realistic. As you would say in America, it is a pipe dream. If that occurs, so be it.

  “And as for your American, Ramsey, I do not relish being used by your CIA. They should clean up their own messes. However, if we capture Ramsey with Loan, then we will see. We made a devil’s bargain with the CIA for Loan. Ramsey’s capture is the price for getting Loan. There are times we need to be pragmatic.

  “Our goal is to capture Loan. You and Hieu start with Hung, then all else s
hould fall into place,” he said, turning to me. “Hung is old and broken, but he trusts no one, except you. I honored his request to have you here.” He put his left hand on my shoulder and stared up into my face. “Thank you for saving my life.” His sincerity enveloped me.

  I felt some goodness in this man, but I also sensed that he’d held back the complete truth. On the other hand, he had sacrificed much to unite his country as a soldier. Maybe his war secrets should stay hidden.

  “You and Hieu will make your plans accordingly. Just remember, the gold or artifacts are a trap, like a spider web, to lure Loan and Ramsey back to this country. I am confident in your abilities. You are an honorable man, and I sense something in you that makes you perfect for this mission. In our Eastern culture, this task is nothing more than a puzzle or riddle to solve.

  “You two represent different cultures and thinking processes: one from the West, one from the East. You should work as partners, the Yin and Yang, to be successful.”

  “We should go. It is a long drive to see Hung,” Hieu said, motivated by Tin’s speech. Unlike Tin, she showed little emotion; her stern face conveyed her focus on the job at hand.

  “Ah, Hieu, please stay for a little lunch with an old man who admires your dedication to our new nation. You are like a daughter to me—so beautiful and yet so intelligent. You are so much like me when I was young, dedicated to the cause. And please, Mr. Moore, you will enjoy my wife’s cooking. She also wishes to honor the American who saved her husband’s life.”

  Lang Da, northwest of Hanoi, January 2, 2003

  The former ARVN colonel stared at me, a frail reminder of the heady times in Vietnam in the late 60s and early 70s, when he acted like a god, deciding life and death for those who opposed him, a true military despot. Hung, no longer a corpulent, privileged government official, sat across us at the scarred table, an emaciated, broken old man. His eyes darted between Hieu and me. Despite his appearance, I sensed a shrewdness in him still. His distressed and wrinkled face did not hide this.

  Major Han yelled harshly at Hung, making him cower. Han turned left to me, where I sat between him and Hieu; the three of us faced the seated Hung.

  “Please ask any questions you wish. I believe Hung has the proper attention,” Han said.

  It was almost two in the afternoon, and I was sluggish from the big lunch at Colonel Tin’s. Forcing my mind to focus on the urgency of my mission, I said, “Do you remember me from Dau Tieng and Saigon in the war?”

  Hung looked at me, furtively glancing at Han and Hieu. Finally, in fairly decent English, he said, “Yes, I . . . do . . . Captain.” He struggled over some words, in contrast to Hieu’s fluency. I also perceived sincerity in him, which confused me.

  “Why did you ask to see me?”

  “I trust you. And I want revenge for my betrayal.”

  “Betrayal?” I said.

  “Yes, I helped Loan and Ramsey before the war ended. They were to ensure my escape to America. As you see,” he looked around, “I have been in prison all this time.”

  I smiled. “Deals made among thieves. So how do you envision my helping?”

  “Oh, you are already doing that,” he smiled back.

  I sat back, caught off guard, pondering how he might manipulate me.

  Suddenly, Major Han stood and screamed at him as he hit the table with a wooden baton that had mysteriously appeared. The loud whack shattered the silence of the bleak interrogation room; I jerked back into my chair, my ears ringing. Hung’s body collapsed in his chair, slightly shaken. The years since the fall of Saigon had not been good to him, having spent all that time in communist reeducation camps and prisons. But his greed got him here. He served as a soldier in name only; he was more of a common crook.

  I waited as Han sat down, pleased with himself. Hieu shook her head slightly but said nothing. The secluded prison in Lang Da now only held a select few prisoners, a far cry from the thousands incarcerated here in the late 70s. Still, the atmosphere demoralized me, and Han’s outburst added to my disgust. His arrogance also seemed to annoy Hieu.

  I leaned back in my creaking wooden chair and let my open suit jacket reveal the pistol strapped to me, a show of power. Hung registered all that as he sat with both hands and feet shackled to rings in the cement floor. But he didn’t seem all that intimidated by Major Han. I wondered why.

  As we talked, the interrogation revolved around the culture divide between us, the West versus the Far East. I had experienced this Vietnamese mentality during the war, the thinking process. Hung seemed to be weighing all his options on what he wished to share with me, the American he had requested because he didn’t trust his fellow Vietnamese.

  I interjected, “Colonel Hung, your ancestors need you free before you die, living with your family. Don’t disappoint them. These men, Loan and Ramsey, are not part of you. You owe them nothing.” I sat back, using the silence to allow him to think.

  The smell of urine from past interrogations permeated the air around us. My mood soured more as the meeting continued, leaving me exhausted and with a headache. My vision blurred as I stood to stretch, trying to grunt my way through the session with Hung.

  Hung lifted his dejected head and made a contorted attempt at a smile.

  “Well, are you ready to talk to me?” I asked curtly. I felt like crap. This trip was an ordeal for me, not knowing how it would all end. I sat down again.

  “I will tell you what I know. I wish to see my family and live out my life in my ancestral village.” The cough that followed didn’t sound healthy; his cancer had to be eating away at him. What struck me was his will to live; I had expected him to still be a coward, but his incarceration had made him a survivor, and he’d grown stronger in the process.

  Hung said that Ramsey had been preparing to return to Vietnam ever since normalized relations with America had been negotiated in 1997. Hung admitted to a prison network that sneaked in newspapers and letters that kept him posted on happenings outside, and he had grown more infuriated over how Loan had abandoned him. He knew Ramsey would need Loan to sneak into the country to retrieve the gold. He helped plant the seed by a letter to Loan in early 2002, stressing the need to retrieve the hidden gold and to get Hung his share, as promised in 1975.

  “I am surprised you believe they would honor the request to share the gold with you. After all, you are locked up here,” I said.

  “Believe me, I expect no gold. I wish only revenge by luring Ramsey and Loan back to Vietnam—to be captured. Their capture will free me from this hellhole.”

  Hung admitted he met Tom Reed on some of the Phoenix operations. Reed and Ramsey complemented each other in killing, something Hung said he had no stomach for.

  “During the war, Loan told me how the young American soldier Reed and Agent Ramsey loved killing. He wished he could recruit that type for his use,” Hung said, bending at the waist, coughing again.

  It disappointed me that the evidence continued to build against Reed. I really didn’t know Reed’s true character after all.

  Then Hung jumped back to the gold. He explained that he thought the gold and artifacts were near My Son, the ancient ruins of the Champa kingdom, based on what took place in Da Nang in January 1973, when Hung had an unexpected visit from Loan and Ramsey. Loan had asked Hung to assign two APCs (armored personnel carriers) and a Rome Plow bulldozer with a tractor-trailer rig to haul it. Ramsey said little, staying in the background as Loan requisitioned the equipment. Hung never saw the vehicles again nor their drivers, and he wrote off the loss due to combat with the NVA or VC in the area. Then Loan transferred to Saigon weeks after the disappearance of the men and equipment. Later Hung reconnected with Loan, but he was told to be patient and to wait for the right moment to leave Vietnam as a rich man. Loan gave no explanation about what happened to the equipment or personnel, but he swore that he would handle everything.

  Hung recalled
the chaotic events of April 1975 that changed everything: Loan’s evacuation from Saigon as the advancing NVA and VC entered the city’s outskirts; Hung’s failure to contact Ramsey prior to the evacuation of the US Embassy; and Hung’s capture in the basement radio room of the Presidential Palace, still trying to contact the Americans to help him.

  I leaned toward Hung. “Tell me what you know about the gold.”

  Hung looked around. He studied his aging reflection in the mirror to his right. “I know very little. I assume it is near My Son.”

  “Colonel Hung, you can drop your act. I have no time for games.” My throbbing headache continued. I needed to get out of this dark, dank, urine-soaked hellhole. In addition, a putrid body order permeated the room—from the hundreds, even thousands, of South Vietnamese prisoners who had passed through this compound over the last thirty years. I didn’t need to guess what occurred here. Hung’s face told me enough about the beatings and torture.

  Hung looked at me for a moment. His seemed at peace with himself. A single light bulb hung over the table; its conical beam framed the aged Hung. His wrinkles, his shallow pallor appeared to have grown as the minutes ticked by. I looked at Hieu in the shadows to my side, observing us both. Her veneer prevented me from reading her. Did she approve or not?

  Knowing I had reached my own limit, I said, “Here is my problem. We want Loan and Ramsey. I assume they will go to where the gold is. So, I need to know exactly where they would go. If you help me, I will help you.”

  Hung stared down to the table top, looking for a life preserver like a sailor lost at sea. “I . . . know there were almost eight hundred gold bars. Where? I was never told. I swear this. There is one man who may know for certain. He is a survivor from village where I think Loan, Ramsey, and Reed killed everyone.”

  “Who is he? And where can we find him?”