Message from Nam

by Danielle Steel

  And there things were even worse. She had brought all the wrong clothes. She had nothing to say to anyone. And she couldn’t deal with the Junior League, or her mother’s bridge club, or the luncheon given for her by the Daughters of the Civil War. Everyone said they wanted to know about Viet Nam, but they didn’t really. They didn’t want to know about the stench of death, or the boy from Miami with his arm blown off, or the beggars with no limbs crawling around the terrace of the Continental Palace Hotel at sunset. They didn’t want to know about VD, or drugs, or boys dying at the hands of the VC, or how old people and children were being shot. They didn’t want to know how it broke your heart, and yet how you came to love it.

  And all she could say to anyone was how sorry she was that she was so tired, so ill, so thin, so totally unable to tell them. What they wanted was a nice clean war movie, with popcorn, no bones, no blood, no shrapnel, no flying flesh that splattered all over you, no boys who were lost, no country that was dying.

  Paxton had never felt lonelier than she did in Savannah. And she had never looked worse, and she had never missed Queenie so much. But she knew she couldn’t have told Queenie about it either. She had come of age, and she was alone. And she was a stranger. It was impossible to tell anyone, except someone who’d been there. She was out with some friends she was sorry she’d called when she ran into a boy in a bar one night. They began to talk, and finally there was someone she could relate to. They talked about Ben Sue and Cu Chi, and Nha Trang, Bien Hoa, Long Binh, Hue, and Vung Tau where she and Bill had spent their first weekend. It was like a secret language among old friends and it was the only good evening she had during her two weeks in Savannah. They firmly shook hands, and she went home that night feeling a little less lonely.

  She had a hard time talking to her mother too. She thought Paxton was still grieving over Peter. But there was so much more than that. If anything, she was grieving for her lost youth, and a country she would never see again, two men she had loved, and a part of herself they had taken with them.

  And her brother put it down simply to exhaustion. And finally, with some new clothes that seemed more suitable than her combat boots, which she took with her anyway, in mid-February, Paxton flew back to San Francisco.

  And she began working at the Sun in earnest. They put her up at a hotel for several weeks until she found a small apartment. And every night she promised herself she would call Gabby, and found she couldn’t. She had nothing to say to her, didn’t want to see her new house or her new curtains, and somehow now Matt seemed so stuffy and so stilted and they all seemed so artificial. And so totally unimportant. The days when they’d all seemed so close were somehow over. And the people she had come to love since then were gone. There was no one left. And she even hated what she was writing for the paper.

  Because of what she’d seen in Viet Nam, they had her covering local political events, and she found it unbelievably boring. And Mr. Wilson urged her to go back at night, if possible, and get her degree at Berkeley. She couldn’t imagine doing it, and it all seemed so tiresome, and so incredibly pointless. She was exhausted all the time, and she hated to go home at night. She was twenty-three years old, and she felt as though her life were over, and the only people she could talk to were the people who had been there.

  Every now and then she came across someone who had been to Nam, and suddenly they exploded into each other’s lives and talked for hours, and then they were gone and everything was silence. And all the while she knew that in Viet Nam people were fighting and winning and losing and dying. And she felt as though she were missing everything because she wasn’t there. And until it was over, she didn’t want to be anywhere but Saigon. She tried to explain it to the editor one day, and he just smiled and told her what a good job she was doing on her current assignments.

  And Paxton kept reading the news of what was happening in Viet Nam, and wondering what Ralph and the others were doing. Why were they still there? Why had she had to come home? What had she done wrong to deserve this?

  And contrary to the promises she’d heard, along with the American public, the attacks seemed to be stepping up, the casualties getting even greater.

  And by May, after four months at home, she couldn’t stand it. Peter had been dead for more than a year by then, and she had gone to the ceremony at his tombstone. But the worst of all was that she felt as dead as he was. At least he and Bill had lived and died, and come and gone, but she was vegetating, writing about things she couldn’t care about, and feeling that her life was wasted.

  And finally, on the first of June, just before Nixon went to Midway to meet Thieu, to agree to withdraw twenty-five thousand troops from Viet Nam, she made her decision. She walked into Ed Wilson’s office feeling better than she had in months, and sure of herself at last. She asked him for her column back, and told him gently that if they wouldn’t send her to Saigon again, someone else would.

  He was horrified. And for a moment he wondered if the time over there had been too much for her, and she was secretly a little crazy.

  “For heaven’s sake, why would you want to go back again? My God, Paxton, our boys would do anything to avoid it today.” It was a far cry from his earlier position until it cost him his son. “Why would you want to go there?”

  “Because I need to be there,” she tried desperately to explain, “because I’m useless here. Because no one really understands what’s happening there except the people who know it.”

  “And you understand it so much better?” He sounded skeptical as he listened.

  “No, but I’ve seen it. I know what it’s all about. No one has to explain it to me. And I can’t sit here talking about people’s cars and curtains and babies and barbecues while I know what’s happening over there. Mr. Wilson, I have to be there.” It sounded crazy to him, but she was old enough to make her own decisions and there was no doubt about it, her column had been good for the paper. They’d had a lot of complaints when it stopped, but none of their other people had wanted to go to Saigon.

  “How does your family feel about this?”

  “I haven’t said anything to them yet.”

  “What if you’re killed?” he asked her bluntly.

  “Then it was fate,” she said quietly, “just like Peter.”

  He nodded. He had come to terms with that in the same way as she had, although he knew Marjorie still hadn’t. She was still railing at the Fates over their injustice. And he knew it wasn’t fair. But … it had happened …

  “How long do you want to stay in Saigon this time, Paxton?”

  “I don’t know.…” She gave it some thought as she sat there. “A year maybe. Something like that. Actually, I’d rather leave it open-ended.” She smiled at him, at ease for the first time in four months. “I’ll let you know when I can’t stand it anymore. Or when the war is over.”

  “Paxton.” He looked at her long and hard. “Are you sure you want to do this?” and as she nodded, he decided he had to satisfy his own curiosity. He couldn’t imagine her wanting to be in Viet Nam again. “Is there someone you’re involved with?” She knew what he meant, but she only shook her head.

  “Just friends, some other lunatics like me,” she said, thinking of Ralph, and the others, “who need to see it through till the bitter end, like I do.”

  “I hope it ends soon,” he said sadly. And then he named a salary which surprised her. “You can stay at the same hotel, or a better one, if there is one. Do anything you want while you’re there, Paxton. You have carte blanche.” He stood up then and kissed her and she thanked him, and when she left his office, she was beaming.

  “Someone got a raise,” one of the editors said as she walked by them.

  “You bet.” She turned with a grin. “They gave me back my column and I’m off to Saigon.”

  “Shit,” the girl said, shaking her head. For the others, it was impossible to understand.

  And when she went back to her desk, Paxton composed a telegram to Ralph Johnson at the
AP bureau in the Eden Building, Saigon. “Coming home as soon as I can get a flight. Get ready. Love, Delta Delta.” She sent the telegram and went home to pack, and call her mother and Gabby. Her mother was appalled, but secretly not surprised. And Gabby cried because her third baby was due any minute. But Paxton had her own life now. And two days later she was on a plane to Saigon.

  CHAPTER 19

  Paxton’s arrival at Tan Son Nhut this time felt like a homecoming to her, and she looked around the familiar base with more warmth than she had felt when she went back to Savannah. She felt immediately at home here, and she knew she had done the right thing as a cab drove her down the Tu Do, to the Caravelle, where she’d lived the year before. It was strange to think she’d been gone for five months, and now finally she felt as though she were home again. She’d been numb when she left, but now she felt alive coming back here.

  She dropped her bags at the hotel, and directed the driver to take her to the Eden Building in the square, and as they drove past the Marines Statue she smiled. She could hardly wait to see Ralph. And when she walked in he was there, looking harassed and complaining, just returned from covering a combat mission. He had his back to her and he was complaining about the stinking driver they’d had, and she walked up behind him slowly and tapped him on the shoulder. And when he saw her, he broke into a broad grin, and threw his arms around her.

  “Delta Delta … I don’t believe it … you crazy bitch! What the hell are you doing here when you could be sitting on your ass in San Francisco?”

  “Oh, really, who said so? I’ve covered every stinking boring event they had, and if I ever have to go to another political meeting, or sit-in, I’m going to puke.”

  “Welcome back,” he said quietly, looking genuinely pleased to see her.

  “Thank you.” Their eyes met and held. They had been through some rough times, and she owed him everything she knew about Viet Nam.

  “Too tired for a drink? When did you get in, by the way?”

  “About two hours ago. And no, I’m not. I don’t know what the hell time it is for me, but I don’t give a damn.” She was ecstatic to see him.

  “The terrace at the Continental Palace?” he asked, laughing. He still remembered how horrified she’d been by it when she first arrived and Jean-Pierre had taken her there, and she asked Ralph about him as they drove toward the Tu Do again.

  “How is he, by the way?”

  “Drinking too much, as usual. His wife finally walked out on him. She got sick and tired of waiting for him to come home from the war. But I think he kind of expected it.” He glanced at her from time to time as they drove. He was so happy to see her. She was almost like family to him now, and she felt the same way about him.

  “How’s France?”

  “Fine.” He sounded strange for a moment. “The baby’s due in September.” She looked at him long and hard, wondering how he felt about it now. He’d been upset about it at first. He didn’t think, given the uncertainties they lived with, that they should have a baby out of wedlock. “I tried to talk her out of it, for the baby’s sake. But she wants it desperately, so … voilá.” He shrugged with a smile, in spite of himself. “I guess I’m going to be a father.” He still hadn’t married her, but he was thinking seriously about it now, with the baby coming, and he was still trying to convince her to get married. “How was it in the States?” He hadn’t been back in so long, it was beginning to seem like a foreign country.

  “Strange.” She was honest with him. “It was really weird at first. I hated it. All the people are so different now, or at least they seemed that way to me. They’re all involved in themselves, and no one gives a damn about all this. It’s like it doesn’t exist, except to the people who’ve been here. They don’t want it to exist, so it doesn’t.”

  “I wondered about that.” They had arrived at the Continental Palace by then, and Paxton realized she had forgotten the unbearable heat of Saigon. It was a far cry from chilly San Francisco. But she didn’t even mind that now. She was just glad to be here, with the endless noise and the familiar smell of flowers and fruit and gas fumes.

  They walked slowly up the stairs and Paxton wondered if they’d run into Nigel. She said as much to Ralph, and for a moment he looked vague and then he looked at her strangely.

  “He was killed at Bien Hoa two months ago. Some stupidity. A car blew up … it was a small bomb planted by the VC … it was a stupid thing, and it killed him.” A lot of them died for stupid things, like Peter, and countless others. And even the ones who died in battle, that seemed stupid afterward too … like Bill. But she tried not to think about that now and just enjoy being with Ralph.

  “That’s too bad about Nigel.” She was sorry, although she had never really liked him. “Are you working a lot?”

  “Too much,” he smiled happily, “but I love it. It’s going to be fun working together again. How soon do you want to start? I’ve been saving a trip to Da Nang until I could find someone to go with me.”

  “I’d love it.” She had never been to Da Nang before, and she had always hesitated because of Peter. She was never sure how she’d feel being where he’d been killed. But this time, she was ready.

  “Good. I’ll set it up. How about if I drag you along with me day after tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be there.” She smiled at him, and then he looked at his watch. He had to get back to France, he didn’t like to leave her alone as much now. She hadn’t been feeling well lately, and An was a handful.

  “Do you want me to take you back to the Caravelle?” he asked as he stood up, but she smiled and shook her head.

  “If I can stay awake long enough, I’ll walk. And if I’m lazy, I can always catch a pedicab. No problem.”

  He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek then. “Welcome back. I’m glad you made it.”

  “So am I.” She gave him a warm hug in return. “And give my love to France. I’ll see you tomorrow at the Five O’Clock Follies. Are they still on?” She laughed at the thought of it, and all the familiar correspondents she would see again. This really was home now, but that said something about her, too, something a little scary. She was one of them now, no longer a Greenseed. She was one of the hard core, one of the people who belonged here until the war was over.

  She waved at Ralph as he left, and closed her eyes as she sipped her drink on the terrace. There was a Green Beret sitting with a Vietnamese girl at the next table. And he was wearing the elite tiger-striped camouflage and red, white, and blue scarf they were all so proud of. Only the Green Berets wore the camouflage mixed with brown, “the Tiger Stripes.”

  Paxton was drinking a thorn xay, the pineapple froth she’d become addicted to before, because she knew if she’d had anything alcoholic, she’d have dropped in her tracks, and as she put the drink down and looked up, she had a start. It was like a dream. She had come back, and suddenly all the same familiar faces were there around her. But this part of the dream wasn’t quite as easy.

  She didn’t know what to say at first, she wasn’t going to say anything, but he had stopped and he was staring at her and he looked awkward and nervous. It was Bill Quinn’s first sergeant, Tony Campobello.

  “I thought you left,” he said strangely, as though he was confused by the dream too.

  “I did,” she said hesitantly, wondering if he’d attack her again verbally, and this time Ralph wasn’t there to protect her. “I just got back. Today, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh.” He nodded. “How was it stateside?” He stood there, awkwardly, talking to her, in his uniform, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it, but seeing him again reminded her of Bill, and it was painful for her, and for him too. Somehow the three of them were still linked together, even though Bill had been gone for six months now.

  “It was strange going home,” she told him honestly. “No one really understands there.”

  “That’s what everyone says. We leave here as heroes and when you go home, they treat you like convicts.”


  “These are strange times,” she said quietly, wondering if she should ask him to sit down and join her. He looked nervous and wiry. He wasn’t a tall man, but he exuded strength and a quiet force that had always impressed her. And she knew Bill had liked and respected him, although her relationship with him had certainly never been pleasant. “Are you still at Cu Chi?” She didn’t know what else to ask him.

  “I re-upped,” he said, looking half proud, half sheepish, as they all did, “for my fourth tour. Bill always said you had to be crazy to be a tunnel rat, and I guess he was right.”

  “Or very brave, or both,” she said softly, thinking of Bill again, and as she did, her eyes met Tony’s, and she didn’t say anything, but Tony knew what she was thinking.

  “He was something,” he said with admiration, and then, looking awkward again, “I owe you an apology.”

  “No, you don’t.” She didn’t want to go back to that again. It was such a terrible time, she didn’t want to think of it … when Bill had died, and Ralph had come to tell her … she knew she could never go through that again, and she looked up at Tony sadly. “I understand. We were both upset.”