by Ed Marohn
Hieu had rapidly backed the SUV and came screeching to a halt a few feet behind me. She rushed out of the vehicle, engine running in park, and grabbed Quan, slapping him and yelling at him in Vietnamese. I released him to Hieu; dizzy, I walked to our vehicle, took my rucksack off, and shoved it in the vehicle’s rear with the AK-47. I then got in the driver’s side and turned the air conditioning to high, trying to cool my body temperature to normal, worrying about heatstroke.
Hieu dragged Quan to the Mercedes, shoved him onto the back seat, and handcuffed him. She slid in next to him and continued yelling at him in Vietnamese, brutally, while he winced at her harsh words, crying and falling apart. Suddenly, she switched to a softer tone, and I heard her concerned voice reach out to Quan; the efficient Hieu had matters in hand, using her own psychological techniques. Finally, the talking stopped. My head thumped with a headache behind my closed eyes, accompanied by more small starbursts. I drank from my water bottle. Nauseous and shivering, my body’s temperature slowly dropped, and I faded in unconsciousness.
“John!” Hieu held a wet cloth on my forehead. I heard Quan snoring in the back. I turned my head to check on him; he lay curled in a fetal position, asleep, soaked in sweat and covered in dirt with bloody scabs on his face from his fall.
I returned to Hieu, sitting in the front seat leaning over me. “John, are you OK?”
I stared at her in a daze, trying to focus on her.
“Yeah . . . I think I feel better now.” I looked at her concerned eyes and her attractive face. My mind wandered. “I’m some partner! Christ!” I said as I sat up from my collapsed position.
Ignoring my mumbling, Hieu held a bottle of water to my lips and forced me to slowly drink. She loosened my shoulder holster.
“Why did Quan run?” I said, the fog in my mind clearing.
“He panicked because he had lied to us about where his dad and other villagers were killed. They are buried in that hill. He knows nothing of the gold. Instead of fleeing the village with his mother and siblings that first night, he sought out his father. He followed the tracks as he said, but to here, where he came upon the villagers filling most of the entrance to a cave, just where you suggested we dig tomorrow. The dozer piled more dirt near the cave’s entrance while Quan hid in the bushes and trees.
“The APCs were parked, their engines running, while the drivers awaited instructions from three men: two Americans and an ARVN colonel. As his father and the other villagers finished shoveling dirt on something in the cave, the Americans and the ARVN colonel stepped behind them in the gathering dusk and shot them using AK-47s. Quan said he was so scared that he could not cry out. He watched as the bulldozer pushed the bodies of the hundred Vietnamese villagers into the cave entrance, the blade spreading dirt over the dead. Quan remembered coming here often with his father on hikes, as this used to be a Montagnard village, deserted long before the war started with the Americans. They had found this large cave used by the Montagnards to store foods and other items.” Hieu refreshed the wet rag on my forehead.
“Thanks,” I said. “That explains Reed’s notes referring to the Montagnards.”
She nodded and said, “Yes.”
Reaching over to me again, she felt my face. “Your skin feels cooler now.” Hieu further explained that she radioed Captain Tho, the commander of the army unit we had been using in the search. He would arrive with equipment to excavate the site tomorrow.
The psychologist in me tried to explain. “He probably experienced a mental shock when he saw his dad die. At age twelve, that is a huge traumatic event. I believe he struggled to give us the correct information, but his mind blocked certain facts and then he compensated for the repression with inconsistent facts. I believe him. I think he is trying to remember it all. I hope he is not in trouble.”
“No. I too understand his pain. Many of my relatives died in the war at the hands of the ARVNs and their secret police. He should not be punished for losing his father as well.”
I looked at my watch; it was five. “We should go back before it gets dark. What about security for this place?”
Hieu thought a moment. “I am afraid of scaring Ramsey if he arrives early. Captain Tho will place a hidden observation post near the fork in the dirt road to observe this hill tonight. His position will have good line of sight to this location.”
“Good, and Quan?” Feeling better, I sat up and put my seat belt on. I eased the Mercedes into drive, drove to the hill again, and turned to the left through small undergrowth, which yielded to the sure-footed SUV.
“We will place him under protective custody until this is over. The Da Nang agents are waiting for us at the hotel to take him. There is no further need for him. He has suffered enough remembering where his father is buried and how he was killed.”
The normally cold Hieu showed some empathy which surprised me. Then again, my slight heatstroke may have shaken her; she probably worried that Colonel Tin would have her ass if I died. That made more sense to me. As I looked out the driver’s side window, my grin at that thought reflected back to me.
Now that we had exploited Quan for information, I hoped he would recover from the trauma. Quan had paid a huge price in the war: the hardship and pain of saving his mother and siblings; the sacrifice of not pursuing his own desires for a normal life; and the huge pain of seeing his father killed by corrupt and greedy Americans and South Vietnamese, buried like trash.
After I crossed the bushy field from the hill, I drove to Hoi An on the minor road. Hieu had closed her eyes, taking a nap. We had both pushed our physical limits. Maybe this would end soon.
Hoi An, January 13, 2003
As evening arrived, I had completed four lazy laps in the cool and soothing pool. The hotel grounds resembled a tropical island engulfed with palm trees and beautiful flowering bushes. I reached the edge of the pool on my last lap and spotted Hieu leaving her bungalow. Clad in her beige bikini with the setting sun behind her, she eclipsed the sun like a goddess, slowly, enticingly walking toward me. Like a loyal subject of a queen, I made room for her as she gracefully eased down onto the pool’s rim.
“Hello,” she said.
“I have to say, you look stunning in that bikini.” I diverted my eyes from her and looked toward the beach and the ocean waves rolling in.
She noticed my withdrawal and tapped me on my shoulder. I returned my gaze to her. “Thank you,” she said.
I nodded as I pulled myself up to sit by her, letting my feet dangle in the water. Our relationship had moments of tension. Since I was American, she would have despised me during the war, and even now, because that war cost her and her country so much in terms of lives and quality of life. Just the Agent Orange defoliation of the land caused birth defects, cancers, and neurological problems for generations of Vietnamese, as the toxic chemicals seeped into the soil, the water table, and the crops. The US had sprayed twenty million gallons of the deadly herbicide, and this on top of the massive bombing of the country that exceeded all the bombs the US dropped in World War II, destroying more lives and cities and contaminating the environment. Over two million Vietnamese civilians were killed, with some 1.2 million NVA and VC soldiers killed.
Americans had forsaken the high road with our war actions, all for the sake of accomplishing an undefined mission. It seemed that the end justified any means.
Needing to redirect my thoughts, I looked at Hieu and said, “You have mosquito bites on your neck and shoulder. You need to watch that. Tomorrow before we leave for the field, you should spray with insect repellant.”
She continued to look at the water, reflections glimmering across her face and sunglasses. “OK, I will spray tomorrow. You have become a worrywart. Is that correct English?”
“Yes,” I said. I closed my eyes and leaned on my elbows, relaxing, recharging my body and mentally preparing for the next hot and humid excursion tomorrow.
Being near her at the pool and working together every day, I felt a closeness that I cherished now. Certainly, her attractiveness had something to do with it. But there was more: We had started to form the beginnings of a bond. I respected her marriage and her family, and I couldn’t think of her as anything other than an ally on a complicated mission. Glancing at her brown body accented by her bikini, I knew we needed to stay professionals.
Changing the subject, I asked about her life as a child, guessing that she was born before the war ended when North Vietnam captured Saigon in 1975.
“As a baby, my mother cared and worried about me due to food shortages. We all suffered for lack of adequate food. People were starving after the war ended because of the destruction everywhere, and also because the Central Committee in Hanoi made serious mistakes in planning crops and other agricultural reforms. The inefficient bureaucracy hampered the recovery until after 1986.
“I remember as a little girl, my family raised a pig in the bathroom of our Hanoi flat to ensure food for five families. It was very hard on everyone. My father served in the NVA because he believed in Ho Chi Minh and the national movement to get rid of the foreigners and unite the country into one Vietnam. Yet his family received no special allocation of food. Everyone suffered. You Americans were seen by the North Vietnamese as invaders, conquerors of Vietnam, and were thus despised and hated. The war divided our country, our people, and we are only now starting to become a progressive nation with a future. It is sad that so many Vietnamese died and so many families suffered.” She looked off into the distance. I listened as she released her feelings.
“You may ask how divided the people became. The other day, you and I talked with the hotel’s concierge, and he said that his uncle died fighting as a Viet Cong. His father was an ARVN officer who recently died after spending years in the reeducation camps my government ran to purge the corruptness of the South Vietnamese.”
I sat up and leaned toward the pool. “War is horrible and humans never learn that. Ideology, politics, power, and religion seem to divide people everywhere. And we kill so easily.”
“Yes. Also, I do not agree completely with the camps. But when we see such corruption by Colonel Loan and Hung, it is hard to not support the programs.” She looked at me, almost melancholy, and continued. “Please do not think badly of me or my people.”
“No, Hieu! I won’t.” It startled me that she even cared what this American thought.
“I worried when I was assigned to work with you. That you would be like the ‘Ugly American’ I read so much about. Now I think you would make a good Vietnamese.” She gave slight chuckle.
I turned to look at her. She stared back, hiding behind her sunglasses. Metaphysically, we were both part of mankind and each other, just as the sun, now setting in the west, was part of the universe. Ideally, we should all be good to each other. Realistically, the biases of man continue to counter this. The Vietnam War grew because of American political leaders’ unwillingness to listen or understand that nationalism had evolved in Southeast Asia.
We sat in silence for a long time as the warm evening turned into a pleasant night. The Asian sky was full of sparkling stars, awing me with the magnitude of the universe. Spiritually, we were two people from different cultures, but we were still people, the same species, with the same desires and the same hopes for normalcy. It was a magical moment for me. All these long years after the war, I finally discovered some clarity of life. I could not describe it in words—I just felt it emotionally, a bonding of my soul with nature. I now understood the cycles of life that took my Katy physically, but she still existed in the stars, in the air, in the breeze, and in me. I didn’t know if Hieu sensed my enlightenment about my wife as she sat by me. However, despite the differences in our skin color and language, I felt closer to her because of the beautiful night sky. When I turned to look at her again, she was looking at me, her sunglasses off, the stars reflecting in her dark black eyes. I smiled, silently thanking her for being there. She gave a small smile back.
My Son, January 14, 2003
The pounding on the door that connected my room to Hieu’s thrust me from my bed. Staggering to the door with my pistol, slightly woozy, I looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand: 5:12 a.m. Hieu yelled, “John, get up!”
Slowly, I opened the door, holding my .45.
“I have French baguettes and strong Vietnamese coffee,” she said, sliding by me as I stood in my sleep pants and T-shirt. On the desk, she arranged a basket of crusty mini-baguettes and two Styrofoam cups of hot coffee. The wonderful aroma of coffee and fresh-baked rolls woke my stomach before my tired mind caught up.
“Why are you here? I thought we were going to meet at eight this morning?” I said as I tasted the good strong coffee and felt the caffeine start to kick in. Then I reached for a baguette, buttered it, and crunched into it, savoring the rich flavor. Not waiting for her answer, I said, “The best part of the French influence on Vietnam is this—the great bread.”
Hieu nodded. “I just finished my phone call with Major Han, and he is pleased. He wished to thank you for your help! Colonel Tin also has been briefed. He still expects you at his house for Tet celebrations, but I think you should come to our home. You already know my children and husband.” Less reserved today, she still orchestrated my life while enjoying coffee with me.
Thanks to the hotel laundry service, we had clean clothes available daily. Today Hieu wore khaki pants with her standard police tunic with her sewn-on badge. Her rank as a senior agent established her authority among the troops. As always, she wore her shoulder holster. She crossed her legs, showing that her soft-sided hiking boots had been cleaned. “Are you awake now?”
“Yes. First, I need a shower. What are the plans for the day? Obviously, something has changed.”
“I will explain as soon as you shower and dress, and while we drive to the hill area to wait for the heavy equipment from the army. Also, there is a team of scientists coming to examine and remove the bones of the dead Vietnamese once we uncover them. It will be sad to find the dead villagers, yet the removal and proper burial of the dead is important for my people and their living relatives.”
As I drove, Hieu talked constantly, alternating between her cell phone, the FM radio, and me. Her energy flowed through the vehicle, and I understood why. Her big moment as a professional policewoman had evolved, a chance to show her competency. She deserved any accolades for the mission.
Finally, she revealed what had gotten us going earlier than planned this morning: a phone call from Captain Tho. In the early hours, his men had observed some lights and movement in the forest area several kilometers from the hill. Although this activity could be unrelated to Ramsey or Loan, the young captain, caught up in the moment, dispatched a platoon of elite airborne troops to beef up the operation as a precaution. As a result, Hieu and I were requested to be there sooner rather than later.
At seven, the captain briefed Hieu at the concealed observation post. I stood stoically, trying to grasp the gist of the conversation, waiting for her to explain afterwards. I estimated a platoon of thirty young soldiers, disciplined and heavily armed, had been deployed to conduct patrols around the area. So far nothing had been discovered. I watched the five-man patrols come in, brief the captain, and then rotate with another patrol while they rested. Their seriousness permeated the briefing area. Radio silence had been initiated as well.
As I looked at them with begrudging respect, I remembered how their fathers, their grandfathers, their uncles, had all stalked American units, ambushing at the first opportunity, inflicting casualties and then disappearing into the jungles or their tunnels as the smells and sounds of high explosives dispelled. NVA soldiers were dedicated professionals, hardened by many years of war. As their current descendants walked by me with camouflage-painted faces, armed with AK-47s, eager, devoted, serious, and ready for combat and killing, I perceived the tradition the
se young men bore from those former warriors. A few of them glanced at me, curious why I worked with them in their country and at their command post. No smiles came my way.
Hieu walked over to me. “Captain Moore—I hope you are alright with your former rank in my addressing you—there is no sign of anyone in the jungle. But I thanked Captain Tho for his prompt action, and he will continue to cover the area while concealing his men and this command post.”
“I assume you are using my former rank to impress Captain Tho?” I said, catching Captain Tho looking my way. He was not the normal five-four height, but rather close to five-seven or five-eight. His upper body bulged with muscles, and his head almost seemed to merge into his torso due to his short muscular neck. He looked sharp in his crisp green fatigues, showing a command bearing. His dark hair in a military buzz cut conformed to army regulations and also made his face look thin and firm. His dark eyes showed intelligence as they probed me, trying to understand me.
Being in his thirties, Tho projected youthful arrogance and a sense of immortality. I had seen that confidence before in NVA officers leading their men to their death against the US Army’s massive firepower—yet they followed, dying with their leaders. Tho had that look; he could lead men anywhere. I broke my gaze as the brief spasm of nostalgia swept through me.
Hieu nodded at me. “I used your former rank for status with Tho and his soldiers. They respect fellow military men.” Then Hieu explained the preparations. The plan was simple. The airborne platoon would stay hidden, monitoring the hill around the clock with five-man patrols. When the bulldozer, the regular infantry platoon, and the anthropologists arrived at the prominent hill, we would meet them, start the excavation of the bodies first, and then hopefully find the gold.
