Message from Nam

by Danielle Steel

  And as she finished her omelet and sipped a cup of coffee, while making a few notes to herself, Nigel Aucliffe and his group stopped at her table.

  “Good morning, again.” His eyes teased openly now and seemed to evaluate her all over again and the other men watched her, intrigued by the suggestive greeting. He had already told them about her, and had told them she was so green she looked like leaves in spring, and was obviously somebody’s very headstrong daughter. He figured it wouldn’t take long for Viet Nam to teach her some lessons, and the thought of it definitely amused him. “Having brunch, I see.” His eyes seemed to caress her, and his attitude annoyed her.

  “Good morning,” she said coolly. He had somehow managed to make it sound like he’d spent the night with her, and the chill in her tone suggested that he was quite mistaken. Her eyes took in the other three, and as he didn’t introduce them, she held out a hand and introduced herself. The younger dark-haired man she’d seen when she arrived was Ralph Johnson from New York, AP; the older man was Tom Hardgood from The Washington Post; and the third man was Jean-Pierre Biarnet from Le Figaro, in Paris. They had been out covering an important press meeting since seven a.m., and had treated themselves to a long, lazy lunch. And Nigel and Jean-Pierre had been talking about knocking off for the rest of the day, when Nigel saw her, and told them what a pleasing sight she had been, wrapped in her bedsheet when he woke her. All three men looked intrigued by her, and most of them were almost old enough to be her father, a thought they would have denied had someone said it. She stood up, ready to leave, and she looked young and lovely and statuesque beside them, and for a moment all four men could barely resist hungry longings. There was an odd silence as she looked at them, well aware of their observation of her novice status.

  “What are you doing over here?” Johnson asked her bluntly. He was curious about her and what she was doing in Saigon, as were the others, but they were too proud and supercilious to ask her.

  “Same as anyone else, I guess. Looking for a story. Covering the war. I’m here for six months to write for the Morning Sun, in San Francisco.”

  Johnson looked stunned. It was a good paper. And he’d known another correspondent they’d sent for a while the year before. It surprised him that they’d send this green girl, but maybe there was another reason.

  “Have you ever done anything like this before?” She shook her head honestly, and for an instant, beneath the bravado, she looked scared, and she was. She had absolutely no idea what she was doing. She had been told to report to the AP office for now, and do whatever assignments they gave her. And Ed Wilson had specifically and personally instructed them not to let her go anywhere alone, and to keep her well out of combat. “How old are you?” Johnson asked bluntly again, and for a moment she considered lying, but then decided not to.

  “Twenty-two. I just finished Berkeley.” She didn’t tell him she’d dropped out, as she signed the check and they all walked slowly into the lobby together. And then he smiled at her.

  “I graduated from there sixteen years ago.” Johnson looked at her with amusement. “And I was about as green as you are when I started. I almost shit. I was 4–F, and The New York Times sent me to Korea. But I learned some stuff I would never have learned sitting on my ass in New York, I can tell you that.” And he surprised everyone by holding a hand out and shaking hers. “Good luck, kid. What did you say your name was?”

  “Paxton Andrews.” They shook hands with her all around then, and the group broke up. Nigel and Jean-Pierre had decided not to quit for the afternoon after all, and instead were going to Xuan Loc to cover some maneuvers. And Tom Hardgood was going to MacVee headquarters at Tan Son Nhut, where Paxton had arrived the night before, for a private interview with General Abrams.

  “Are you going to the AP office?” Johnson asked Paxton almost as an afterthought, as she walked out to the street and nodded. “I’ll show you where it is,” he said, smiling at her again, and the others left, promising to see him that night, as Paxton strode along beside him.

  The AP office was in the building she’d seen on the way in the night before, the Eden Building on the square across from the statue of the marine that seemed to be a reference point to everyone in Saigon. And the AP office was in the corner of the building. She had her orders waiting there. She was to “orient herself to Saigon” and be at the U.S. Information Service auditorium at five o’clock, for what Ralph Johnson informed her were called the Five O’clock Follies.

  “I see they’re either giving you a slow start, or putting you on Pablum. My first day in Seoul, they booted me right out to the front lines and I almost got shot. It was one way to be introduced to the war. This ought to be a little nicer.” But she felt somehow put down, and she wondered what he meant by “putting her on Pablum.”

  “What are the Five O’clock Follies?”

  “A lot of propaganda. They tell us everything they want us to hear, about how great the war is going. We lose a hill, we really didn’t. A bunch of guys got killed, the enemy lost more; Charlie captured some of our equipment, all of it was obsolete anyway so who cares. Body counts that make things sound a little better than they are, the usual shit they want you to feed the folks back home to convince them we’re winning.”

  “And are we?” she asked bluntly.

  “What do you think?” he asked coldly. His eyes told their own tale.

  “That’s why I’m here. I want to know the truth.”

  “The truth?” He looked at her cynically. “The truth is, it’s hopeless.” It was what she’d suspected all along, what Peter had thought all along. Before the place had killed him.

  “When do you think they’re going to admit that and get our boys home?” she asked with innocent fervor in her eyes, and he shook his head with a look of exasperation.

  “That, my friend, is the million-dollar question. We have half a million guys here now, a thing called a DMZ, which means don’t step on Uncle Ho’s toes, and a bunch of kids getting shipped out of here in body bags by the thousand.” As he said the words, he saw her flinch and it annoyed him. “If you’re shy about that, you’d better get over it quick, or go home. This isn’t a place for the fainthearted.” He wondered if they knew what they were doing telling her to orient herself to Saigon. Maybe she was just someone’s kid playing tourist. But something about her told him that there might be more to her than that. He wasn’t sure yet. “I’ve got a meeting with some guys.” He looked at her then, a question in his eyes. “You interested in seeing some of the real Nam, or are you just here to play for a while and tell the folks back home you saw it?” The question was an honest one and she appreciated at least the chance to prove herself as she looked him in the eye and let him know she meant business.

  “I want to see the real thing.”

  He nodded. He had somehow suspected that, despite the good looks and blond hair, she didn’t look like a Doughnut Dollie. “I’m taking a crew up to a firebase near Nha Trang tomorrow. You want to come?” His eyes were hard, but he was giving her a chance. He’d been young once, too, and they’d gone to the same school, and for some unknown reason, he thought she deserved it.

  “I’d love it.” And then, meaning it, “Thank you.”

  “You got boots?”

  “More or less.” She’d bought the toughest ones she could find from Eddie Bauer’s.

  “I mean real ones. You gotta have steel shafts in the soles in case you step on a bamboo spike.” She looked blank, but he knew his stuff. He’d been in Saigon since ’65. “What size shoe do you wear?”

  “Seven.” She was in awe of him. If she made anything of herself at all here, she thought it might be thanks to him, and she was truly grateful.

  “I’ll get you a pair.”

  “Thank you.” And as soon as she said the words, he’d vanished. He had an appointment with the assistant chief of the bureau, who was frowning as Ralph walked in.

  “What happened to you? You look happy this afternoon,” Ralph teased hi
m.

  “You would too. I’ve had ten telexes from San Francisco this week about some Greenseed who must be someone’s nephew. They don’t want him up north. They don’t want him out of Saigon. They don’t want him to get hurt. They don’t want him anywhere, except high tea at the fucking palace. I’ve got enough headaches in my life without visiting firemen, bored movie stars, and other people’s fucking nephews.”

  “Relax. Maybe he won’t even show up. Half these kids talk their socks off about coming here, but they never have the balls to get here. We have a new Doughnut Dollie in our midst, by the way.”

  “Great. Just what we need. Try and keep your pants on, Ralph. I need you alive for another month, if you can swing it.” The two men exchanged a smile. They had been friends for years, and had a strong respect for each other. “Who’s the girl?”

  “I forget. West Coast. She went to my alma mater. She looks smart, but scared, and green. I offered to take her to Nha Trang tomorrow.”

  “Who does she work for?”

  “I forget that too. She’s okay. And if she isn’t, she’ll be scared shitless and on the next flight home by tomorrow.”

  “Just watch your ass. It’s hot up there right now. But I want you to take a look at this for me.” It was a “borrowed” document someone had given him, indicating enormous troop requests for fresh battalions.

  “Christ, aren’t they ever going to get smart and start sending the boys home?” Ralph Johnson looked dismayed when he read it.

  “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  “It makes me weep.” They went over some other things. A report of increased action in the A Shau Valley, and some crazy reports about Agent Orange. They talked about the trip to Nha Trang the next day, and by then the new girl was all but forgotten.

  Ralph Johnson stopped for tea in the suburb of Gia Dinh that day, on some personal business. And by five o’clock he was back in town, picked up his messages at the office, and was only ten minutes late at the Information Service to hear the news delivered at the Five O’Clock Follies. It was the usual reports that day. Who had been killed where, fantastic body counts from the Viet Cong, statistics no one believed and hadn’t for a long time, and an enemy document everyone had a chance to examine. Tom Hardgood was also there, and Jean-Pierre, but Nigel wasn’t. And Jean-Pierre waved when he saw Paxton. After it was all over, he went over to her, and thought she looked hot and tired and still a little stunned by her arrival. He explained that Nigel had gone on to Xuan Loc, but he had decided to stay in Saigon.

  “Well, mademoiselle.” He smiled. “How do you like it?”

  She smiled tiredly at him. She had spent the last two hours exploring the city. It had been excruciatingly hot all afternoon, and she was overwhelmed by the sights and smells, the endless noises, the sound of planes, the smell of fuel, and the smoke that burned her eyes in the Chinese quarter. She had gotten lost several times, had rented two pedicabs, been picked up by at least a dozen GIs, and she couldn’t make head or tail of her Vietnamese phrase book. “I’m not sure,” she said honestly, with a tired smile, wondering what purpose these five o’clock briefing sessions served. They seemed so perfectly orchestrated and so artificial. But if you wanted to, you could sit here and report on the war based on what they told you. But she knew that was not what she had come for.

  “These things are ridiculous, I can assure you.” He was still wearing his fatigues and he looked hot and sweaty. He was a photographer, and he’d been out since four o’clock that morning, and after his lunch with the others, he’d covered a tremendous story.

  A group of children had been killed by a terrorist bomb, and the photographs he had taken had been awful. He tried to explain it to her, and his voice was almost a monotone as he told her. He couldn’t allow himself to feel anything anymore. It was all too painful.

  “I got a perfect shot. Of two dead little girls holding hands,” he said in a perfectly even tone. “My paper will be very happy.” There was something ghastly about being here, and they all knew it. It ate at you, and destroyed something within. And yet, they also knew they had to be there, for whatever reasons.

  “Why did you come here?” she asked quietly, sobered by what he’d said, yet intrigued by all of them, as the others started to drift away from them.

  “Because I wanted to know what had changed. I wanted to know why the Americans thought they could win, and if they could, after we didn’t.”

  “And can they?” She seemed to be asking everyone, but she wanted to know what people thought, people who knew, the people who’d really seen it.

  “No. It’s impossible,” he said, looking very French, “and I think they know it now, but they don’t know what to tell your people. They’re afraid to admit disgrace, to say they can’t win, and must come home now. It’s not American … it’s not proud … or brave … it took us a long time too,” he said by way of explanation. And she agreed with him. The Americans were staying in Viet Nam in order not to lose face, but they already had. And they were losing boys daily, in the meantime. To the Viet Cong, to booby traps, to mines, to snipers, to “friendly fire,” like Peter. And it was odd, now that she was here, she had been less obsessed with him. She had hardly thought of him all day, she was so busy trying to figure it all out, see everything, and discover Saigon. It was a relief in a way. Maybe now that she was here, the pain would dim. Maybe she could put him to rest one day. Maybe she had been right to come here.

  And as she thought of it, she saw Jean-Pierre watching her, and he smiled, not understanding what she was thinking. “This is a serious place. You were very brave to come here. Why did you do it?”

  “It’s a long story,” she explained vaguely, looking around. By then, Ralph had left, and Tom Hardgood, and Jean-Pierre asked if she’d like to have a drink at the Terrasse of the Continental Palace Hotel.

  “It’s an amazing place. True Saigon. You really have to see it.”

  “Thank you,” she said shyly, touched by all of them. Although she knew Nigel regarded her with a certain condescension, at least Ralph seemed willing to give her both a chance and a helping hand, and Jean-Pierre seemed pretty friendly. She noticed that he wore a wedding band, but his invitation seemed more platonic than sexual, and she was right. When they got to the Terrasse, he told her all about his wife, a successful model in Paris.

  “I met her when I was doing fashion photography ten years ago, then I got fascinated by this, photojournalism. She thinks I’m crazy. She meets me in Hong Kong once a month, and it keeps me sane. I don’t think I could stay here without that. How long are you planning to stay here for?” he asked, with casual interest.

  “Six months,” she said bravely, sounding very young, and he smiled.

  “You have a boyfriend here? In the army?” She shook her head, but some women did. He knew a lot of civilian nurses who had come over because their boyfriends had been sent to Saigon. But sooner or later they all regretted it. The place broke your heart, the boyfriends were wounded or killed, or shipped back to the States and the girls stayed and tore their hearts out caring for maimed children. Some felt they couldn’t leave, some did, but no one was ever the same. “Once you’ve been here,” he said knowingly, “you won’t forget it.” She nodded, willing to take the chance, as she looked around her in amazement. They had sat down at a table on the terrace of the Continental Palace Hotel, and there were limbless beggars everywhere, crawling like insects between the tables. At first she didn’t understand what was happening, she thought they were looking for something, and then suddenly one of them was looking up at her, half his face blown away, one eye gone, and both arms, and he looked up at her and moaned as she almost fainted. Jean-Pierre brushed him away and Paxton looked mortified, as shoeshine boys, and prostitutes and vendors of drugs and assorted wares accosted them, and everywhere the smell of flowers and fuel, the voices, the horns, the shouts, the cars, the bicycles, the people. It was like a circus.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized for he
r weakness when confronted by the faceless beggar.

  “You’re going to have to get used to that. There’s a lot of it here. In Saigon, some of the time you can pretend nothing is happening, and then one day a bomb goes off, a bar blows up, one of your friends is hurt, or you see children bleeding in the street, crying for their mother, lying in front of you, dead from a VC bomb. You can’t always hide from it. And in the North, it’s worse. Much worse. There you really see the war.” He looked at her carefully over their drinks, curious about her, she was just young enough to be his daughter. “Are you sure you want to be here?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly, sure of herself now that she was here, even if she still wanted to cry when she saw the beggars and the limbless children. But she had only been there for a few hours. Fourteen exactly.

  “Why?” he asked pointedly.

  She decided to be honest with him, as she had been with the boy on the plane. “Someone I loved died here. I wanted to see it. I wanted to understand why he died. To come here and speak the truth about the war through my paper.”

  He smiled sadly at her. “You are very young and idealistic. No one will care, and when you cry in the darkness, no one will hear you. You want to send a message from here … but to whom? For your friend it is too late. And for the others? Some will come here, if they have to, some will live, some will die. Nothing you can do will change that.” He made it all sound so hopeless, but Paxton didn’t believe him.

  “Then why are you here, Jean-Pierre?” She looked directly into his eyes and he wondered if she would sleep with him. He knew Nigel wanted her. Ralph had France and her boy … and of course he had his wife in Paris. But she was a long way from there, and this girl was so fresh, so pure, so full of her ideals, so clean and yet at the same time so strong, so sure. He smiled to himself then and Paxton asked why and he laughed as he answered.

  “I think you remind me of … Joan of Arc, I think you call her. We call her Jeanne d’Arc, she believed in all the same things you do. The truth, the power of the sword in the name of God, and freedom.”