Legacy of War

by Ed Marohn

  “I don’t wish to be unkind, but I feel there is something missing about Ramsey. Loan’s capture or death for war crimes as a Vietnamese makes sense. But why not let the US prosecute Ramsey, an American citizen, in legal channels? Why did you lure Ramsey back to Nam? I don’t believe that capturing Ramsey represented your obligation to the CIA to get Loan here. You undoubtedly played the CIA, acting as if Ramsey would be your payment to get Loan.”

  “You are shrewd, John. Forgive me for my deceit. Old oriental habits are difficult to break, I am afraid. It is about face here in the Orient.”

  “And revenge.” I sat and waited. I felt like a pawn piece used by the chess master.

  Tin was visibly shaken. “You see, Ramsey killed many noncombatants, but he also killed my mother in Saigon when trying to capture me.” He stopped, and I saw the sadness pool in his eyes. He turned and looked out the window. “We used you, I regret, for my personal revenge. As in your culture, an eye for an eye.”

  I stared at the brutal truth. It all made sense now. Luring Colonel Loan to return for the uncertain hidden gold also would bring Ramsey. The Vietnamese had no doubt that they could capture or kill Loan anytime. But getting Ramsey, a US citizen, would be very difficult. They could not assassinate him in the States nor capture him alive in Vietnam because their treaty with the US required rule of law, and any charges against Americans would need the US legal system. The Vietnamese would not endanger the trade agreements or the financial aid. Colonel Tin’s solution had to be me. Get Ramsey to Vietnam and use me to be judge, jury, and executioner. They got a double win when Ramsey, in saving my life, killed Loan. As for the American hired hand that I killed in self-defense, well that could be viewed as fallout, and he too had been buried in the Vietnamese jungles. Both Americans were gone forever, and I couldn’t tell anyone without implicating myself in a convoluted international intrigue.

  What angered me the most was the duplicity from CIA Agent Woodruff, a fellow American. Still, I had been used by both the CIA and the Socialist Republic of Vietnam.

  “John, please do not harbor ill will toward me or my country. These debts had to be paid without harming our new relation with the US.”

  I continued to stare at Tin, not knowing what to say.

  Tin continued as if nothing had happened: “Colonel Zang wishes again to convey his deepest respect and his thanks. We can never repay you for your bravery. You are an honorable man, like our revered legendary warrior Tran Hung Dao, who helped defeat the invading Mongols by unifying the Vietnamese. What you did these last few days helped strengthen our new government and solve the war deaths of the hundred Vietnamese from the village of Giang.”

  “Colonel Tin, I—”

  “Please humor an old man. I am steeped in the ancient history of the Vietnamese and find many parallels with modern history and wars. You must understand that four million Vietnamese civilians died in the American Indochina War. Such sorrow follows many generations to come. And Captain Tho and Agent Hieu are descendants of brave NVA soldiers, who are dead now.”

  A young Vietnamese woman came into the room carrying a tray with cups and a pot of hot tea, its herbal fragrance permeating Tin’s office. After her words with Tin, she departed with a polite bow and a smile for me, eyeing the American so honored by her grandfather.

  “I talk too much of history and death. How did the assignment work with Hieu as your partner?”

  “Agent Hieu was remarkable. I could not have asked for a better partner—intelligent, brave, and professional. The success of the mission is due to her and to Captain Tho. You planned well.”

  “Such loyalty and humility, John. I am impressed. I found most Americans in the war maybe too arrogant, as if they were on a sacred crusade and could do no wrong. You are refreshing to talk to.” He took the teapot and poured for both of us.

  “Wars are often fought for the wrong reasons, and the people are often manipulated by their leaders with religious and ideological fantasies,” he said, taking a sip of tea. “You may not know, but I personally selected Hieu once I read your dossier.”

  My face must have shown surprise.

  “Yes, John, when I first met you on that helicopter as a prisoner of war, I knew by your actions to save Zang and me from Ramsey that you were an honest man, a noble warrior. Ramsey told me before we boarded the helicopter that he was responsible for the death of my mother, almost gleefully, trying to break me down for interrogation. I swore at that moment to avenge her with his death. My war experience, with so many of my soldiers killed, devastated me. I became severely depressed. After the war ended, a friend, a Buddhist, talked me into going to the temple at Da Lat. The months there saved my soul, but I could no longer kill. My plan to use you to avenge my mother’s death came to me at that time.”

  I sat there stunned, hoping to better understand. Had fate drawn us together?

  “Oh, it is out of respect for you that I gave you such a heavy burden. Anyway, when I knew you had accepted my request to come to help us, I needed to assign an agent to you who would complement you mentally and spiritually—with the Yin and Yang that Hieu believes. You two were ideal for this operation. In fact, I feel that you two were destined to be partners in this mission. When I heard how you carried her wounded body to protect her from Loan and Ramsey, I was proud of you, as if you were one of my own sons. And I will say it validated my decision to request you.”

  I looked at the old man, his convictions immersed in oriental beliefs.

  “But she is married?” Tin added.

  “Yes, and I respect her marriage.”

  Tin looked at me. His silence expressed his understanding. Then he said, “And understand that Hieu knew nothing of my personal revenge against Ramsey or about using you for the killing. I knew that Hieu would not hesitate to kill Ramsey if needed.”

  “Your plan worked, but I don’t understand how it did,” I said. “There were so many variables that had to come together. CIA Director Woodruff obviously worked with you to convince me to come to Vietnam. But once here in Nam—well, so many things had to fall into place. And what made you think I would kill again?”

  “John, you forget the most important belief I have: Taoism and its Yin and Yang of life, of events.”

  “Yes . . . ” I paused.

  “Before I forget, I wish for you to stay longer to relax and enjoy the beauty of this land before we release you of your duty.” He smiled, knowing his request had been honored by Woodruff. “You need the rest, and I can ensure you, you will be given the highest courtesy at the place I have selected for you. There are already stories spreading about the avenging American with his Vietnamese woman partner.” He gave me a sad look.

  “I will stay as you wish, but hopefully not too long, as I need to return to my normal life.”

  Tin pulled a business card from the top of his desk. “Please, if you need something, call me. I am indebted to you, forever. I hope you will consider me a friend and not one who used you. You will see me differently when you stay a few months at the special area I have reserved. It will make you whole again. And to answer the question why I thought you could kill again: John, you are controlled by demons of war, a harsh legacy for you and me. We will go to our graves bearing those scars.”

  “Legacy?” I asked.

  “Aw, you don’t know, do you? I knew your father, a former colonel in the French Foreign Legion.”

  I sat up, placing my cup of tea on the table.

  “I worked for him, then Captain Roger Mongin, as his administrator when he was assigned to French HQ in Saigon in 1950. He fought against me eventually when I joined Ho Chi Minh. We met as combatants at Dien Ben Phu, where the French were defeated in 1954. He was the last one to survive from his company on a lonely hilltop. He was badly wounded, and I ensured his safety and medical treatment on his trip to the POW camps.”

  He eyed me, enjoying my shock. Tur
ning around to a small bookcase behind him, he pulled out a book, Jacques de Mont’s La Mort de Indochina Française.

  He pulled out a letter from the inside cover.

  “Do you read French?” he asked.

  “Very poorly,” I said.

  “Then with your permission, let me read something to you.” He unfolded the stationary and began:

  December 1, 1976

  Dear Colonel Tin,

  Again, I thank you for saving my life at the battle of Dien Ben Phu. My months in the POW camp were harsh, but I survived in part due to your concern over me. I send the enclosed book about the French Indochina War and my participation, written by reporter Jacques de Mont. The author stressed to me more than once that he met my son in Saigon, a young US Army captain, in 1969. I denied it for all these years until I saw him in my town, Troyes, earlier this year.

  I do not want to die until I tell someone I trust—you, my friend. From de Mont’s information, my illegitimate son’s name is Captain John Moore. He came looking for me at my favorite café and was about to cross the street to introduce himself. I waited and saluted him, but he turned and walked out of my life. I deserved that. . .

  “Thus, you see you and I are connected through your father. That is why I mentioned our common legacies with Vietnam.” Tin smiled.

  “You do know he abandoned my mother after World War II?”

  “Yes. Roger had terrible issues with women, I am afraid. But I thought you should know that you coming to Vietnam was not a random event. The history, the legacy, fit well with my plan. I believe it was destined. By the way you look like him, especially back then on the helicopter, when you saved us. That is why I stared so hard at you; I thought Roger Mongin had returned to the war.”

  I said nothing. I had already dealt with the pain of being abandoned by Mongin, my father that I never knew.

  “You and I are soldiers who have killed, and you could do so again. Believe me. That is why I am sending you to this resort. You will understand why afterward. For me, I have found redemption through you and my monk. I can die in peace. It is your turn to redeem your soul, to find peace.” He stood up, signaling the end of our meeting.

  I shook his offered hand. My biological French father fought Tin and his comrades in the French Indochina War. I too ended up here, fighting the same enemy in the American Indochina War many years later. A legacy of war for all of us, I thought.

  Forgetting my father, I asked, “Did Colonel Hung get his freedom?”

  “Yes, but the doctors feel he has only months to live due to cancer spreading so rapidly.”

  Saddened, I couldn’t say anything. How death brings us together.

  Without missing a beat, he said, “Finally, for Agent Hieu, she will be rewarded by the state with her promotion. Now come and meet my relatives and guests—many have already heard much about the avenging American. Maybe you will become part of the Vietnamese folklore?” He smiled. “We Vietnamese are very pragmatic about our religion and heroes. Certainly, we can have an American in our legends, don’t you think?”

  Grasping to understand, I asked, “Colonel Hung didn’t know where the gold was hidden?”

  “No. But, John, he knew about the killing of villagers. And he knew he would share in the gold with Loan and Ramsey. Just because he had no knowledge of where any gold had been hidden does not excuse him from his crimes. But I honored his request for freedom because he did help me get Ramsey and Loan back here. And he shrewdly asked for you. That’s why I decided to ultimately free him. You see, I respect you a great deal, more than you can imagine.”

  Surprised, I looked at him.

  “And furthermore, I care little about the gold. We all assumed it had been recovered by other ARVNs years ago. The knowledge of the gold was used to lure all these criminals to be punished. Yes, I used you, John—an American to execute another American. My soul is cleansed because of you. We did the correct thing. You will learn more from the place I am sending you. Just keep your mind open when you are there. Then you will know firsthand why I had to use you to kill Ramsey, to get revenge for my mother.”

  I slightly bowed to him, this Vietnamese man who shrewdly avenged his mother’s death through me. A saddened Colonel Tin turned, and I followed him out of his office into the crowed living room; a semi-circle of people had formed in front of the office door. Tin started the clapping as he turned to me, smiling now with pride, one ex-warrior to another. Both of us had finally achieved a little peace; an exorcism of our past war demons and the recent enemies who chose to return to this beautiful land in an attempt to violate it, to rape it, only to be flung back and killed like the Mongols of old by Colonel Tin’s favorite ancient warrior, the legendary Tran Hung Dao. I bowed slightly to the applause with mixed emotions. I could not change recent events. Instead, I focused on Hieu, thankful for knowing her.

  Noi Bai Airport, May 1, 2003

  I stood in the departure lounge at the Hanoi airport, waiting for my return flight to the States after many relaxing and therapeutic days at the mountain resort of Da Lat, courtesy of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. The former French hill station, situated at five thousand feet elevation in the Central Highlands, had served me well: I needed the trip to fully recover from the gunshot wound and to cleanse my mind of killing three men. I must have seen every pagoda and temple in the area trying to understand the mystery of life in general and the mystery of my life in particular. I befriended one of the Buddhist monks, the same one Tin had mentioned, and we spent a part of every day together in his temple, meditating and discussing my emotional pain. Like a psychologist, he provided me with necessary therapy. I felt better about myself even as I struggled with inner confusion about why I had been dealt this hand in this country and in my life, both during the war and now, thirty years later. I kept thinking about Hieu and her Yin and Yang. She became a part of me as Vietnam had; both were mysterious entities that would linger with me forever.

  On our last day together, the monk told me how Colonel Tin had been here many years ago to recover from killing in the war. He knew that Tin had taken the enlightened path and would never harm anyone else again. He gave me a written note in a sealed envelope from Tin and instructed me to read it only at the airport upon my departure for the US.

  I now pulled it out of my suit pocket, tore open the envelope, unfolded the note, and read:

  Dear John,

  Again forgive me, John, for using you to avenge the death of my mother. I took personal vows with the same monk you have been learning from these last few months. Those vows mean that I can never harm anyone again. I am better for it, but you see, I passed my awful burden on to you. You killed for me, but I believe you were destined from the day we were thrown together on that helicopter to help me. It is the Yin and Yang of life. This was meant to be, and I thank you for helping an old man. I now hope I helped you through my Buddhist monk friend to regain your sanity and enlightenment. You and I paid dearly for serving our countries. It is time to move on. You have cleansed the Earth of the evil related to you and me. Please move forward to bring peace and harmony to your life. I will always be indebted to you for doing what I had sworn to never do again—to kill. And you too will follow the same path. That, I believe, is both our destinies, and the legacy of our wars.

  Your friend,

  Tin

  I folded the note back in its envelope and nodded, glancing around the room. No one paid any attention.

  On that last day with the monk, I gave him Ramsey’s locked briefcase, containing only the folder, which I still hadn’t read. He swore to hide it and safeguard it. I didn’t know if I ever would retrieve the file and read it, but I’d had enough of intrigue and wanted some normalcy in my life. Deep down, my mistrust in Woodruff drove me to this: I knew he would have US custom agents thoroughly search every item of my duffle bag and my CIA case. Whatever that folder had on him would be safely
stored and hidden from him in Vietnam.

  My flight’s early boarding announcement for first class came over the lounge speaker. I finished the last of my Perrier and had just picked up my case, no longer stored in the backpack that I had returned to the Vietnamese government, when her voice startled me.

  “John, you leave without saying goodbye?” Hieu stood in her ao dai, both tunic and pants matching in light blue, her favorite colors—mine as well. Her broken leg had healed, and she no longer needed her cane. She beamed radiantly. The gold chain with the Taoism pendant hung around her neck, brightly reflecting in the room’s fluorescent lights. She had combed her hair out, instinctively knowing how I liked that look.

  Hieu had telephoned me often while I rested in Da Lat. We continued to bond through words, never stepping over to the romantic side. I think we both recognized our deep need for each other, and her calls were part of that—the concern she had for my emotional health and my need for her.

  “I . . . wanted to say goodbye, but I think you know. . . ” I said, lost for words.

  “I know. I will always think of you.” She forced a smile. She reached into her purse and gave me a little jewelry box.

  I flipped the lid open; inside was a man’s silver money clip with the circular Taoism emblem. “Hieu . . . thank you.” I paused, looking at her, then said what came from my heart, “We do complement each other—a true harmony of life.”

  She smiled. “I am your Yin, and you are my Yang. Maybe we will meet in another life.” Hesitating, Hieu wanted to say something. Instead, she surged toward me and kissed my cheek, then turned and walked away, her beauty accenting the room. When she reached the security door, she turned and smiled at me, a radiating smile that belonged to me alone. Her moist eyes reflected the harsh light of the room. She stepped through the doorway, shutting it behind her. Gone!

  Frozen like a statue, staring at the closed door, I stood, my own eyes misting. Hieu represented the good of Vietnam that ultimately saved me mentally, that pulled me from the abyss that my depression had hurled me into. Her honesty, her beauty, and her caring merged into a goddess for me. I would eternally think of her, metaphysically, and what could have been, the Yin and Yang of Taoism, ultimately reflecting on how she had brought back my humanity, lost all those years in the Vietnam War and compounded by my wife’s death.