by Tim O'Brien
“That’s what I tell my folks in letters,” Eddie said. “A war!”
They’d all heard the shot. They’d watched Frenchie go down, a big hairy guy who was scheduled to take the next chopper to the rear to have his blood pressure checked, a big guy who liked talking politics, a great big guy, so he’d been forced to go slowly, wiggling in bit by bit.
“Not me,” he’d said. “No way you get me down there. Not Frenchie Tucker.”
“You,” said Sidney Martin.
“Bullshit,” Frenchie said. “I’ll get stuck.”
“Stuck like a pig,” said Stink Harris, and some of the men murmured.
Oscar looked at Sidney Martin. “You want it done,” he said, “then do it yourself. Think how good you’ll feel afterward. Self-improvement an’ all that. A swell fuckin feeling.”
But the young lieutenant shook his head. He gazed at Frenchie Tucker and told him it was a matter of going down or getting himself court-martialed. One or the other. So Frenchie swore and took off his pack and boots and socks and helmet, stacked them neatly on a boulder, cussing, taking time, complaining how this would screw up his blood pressure.
They watched him go down. A great big cussing guy who had to wiggle his way in. Then they heard the shot.
They waited a long while. Sidney Martin found a flashlight and leaned down into the hole and looked.
And then he said, “Somebody’s got to go down.”
The men filed away. Bernie Lynn, who stood near the lip of the tunnel, looked aside and mumbled to himself.
“Somebody,” the new lieutenant said. “Right now.”
Stink Harris shrugged. “Maybe Frenchie’s okay. Give him time, you can’t never tell.”
Pederson and Vaught agreed. The feeling of hope caught on, and they told one another it would be all right, Frenchie could take care of himself. Stink said it didn’t sound like an AK, anyway. “No crack,” he said. “That wasn’t no AK.”
“Somebody,” the lieutenant said. “Somebody’s got to.”
No one moved.
“Now. Right now.”
Stink turned and walked quickly to the perimeter and took off his helmet, threw it down hard and sat on it. He tapped out a cigarette. Eddie and Vaught joined him. Doc Peret opened his medic’s pouch and began examining the contents, as if doing inventory, and Pederson and Buff and Rudy Chassler slipped off into the hedges.
“Look,” Sidney Martin said. He was tall. Acne scars covered his chin. “I didn’t invent this sorry business. But we got a man down there and somebody’s got to fetch him. Now.”
Stink made a hooting noise. “Send down the gremlin.”
“Who?”
“The gremlin. Send Cacciato down.”
Oscar looked at Cacciato, who smiled broadly and began removing his pack.
“Not him,” Oscar said.
“Somebody. Make up your mind.”
Paul Berlin stood alone. He felt the walls tight against him. He was careful not to look at anyone.
Bernie Lynn swore violently. He dropped his gear where he stood, just let it fall, and he entered the tunnel headfirst. “Fuck it,” he kept saying, “fuck it.” Bernie had once poured insecticide into Frenchie’s canteen. “Fuck it,” he kept saying, going down.
His feet were still showing when he was shot. The feet thrashed like a swimmer’s feet. Doc and Oscar grabbed hold and yanked him out. The feet were still clean, it happened that fast. He swore and went down headfirst and then was shot a half inch below the throat; they pulled him out by the feet. Not even time to sweat. The dirt fell dry off his arms. His eyes were open. “Holy Moses,” he said.
Fifteen
Tunneling Toward Paris
So you see,” said Li Van Hgoc as he brought down the periscope and locked it with a silver key, “things may be viewed from many angles. From down below, or from inside out, you often discover entirely new understandings.”
Bowing once, the officer escorted Paul Berlin into a brightly lighted chamber made up to resemble a patio at midmorning. Birds chirped and butterflies fluttered above wrought-iron tables. The others were there having breakfast.
Afterward Li Van Hgoc escorted the lieutenant through his deep fortress, beaming, answering questions about military matters, shop talk, explaining the functions of various dials and buttons and blinking lights on his chrome console. Corson was impressed. The two officers got along splendidly.
When the tour was over they took chairs in the sitting room. The lieutenant accepted a cigar.
“So,” the old man sighed. He let the word linger. “So this is how the other half lives. Very enlightening.”
The two men talked for a time, mostly of military matters, then the lieutenant glanced at his watch and carefully cleared his throat.
There was a pause.
“Yes, it’s a nifty setup you got here,” Lieutenant Corson said. “A real sweet BOQ.” Again he looked at his watch. “But I hate to say it’s time we were moving on. Miles to go and all that.”
“You can’t stay longer?”
The lieutenant shook his head. “Afraid not. Honest, I wish we had a week to—you know—to compare notes. But it’s time we hit the dusty trail.”
“Nicely said.”
Corson nodded. “So maybe you’ll show us the door? Point the way and we’ll be off.”
Li Van Hgoc still smiled, but he seemed troubled. “Difficult,” he said. “It is not an easy thing.”
“No?”
“I fear not. You see, there is a certain problem.”
“I’m listening,” the lieutenant said.
Li Van Hgoc removed his pith hat, rubbed his scalp a moment, then placed the hat back on his head.
“A very sticky problem,” he repeated, groping for the right words. He gazed at the ceiling fan as if searching for something just out of sight. “You see … you see, according to the rules, I fear you gentlemen are now my prisoners. You see the problem? Prisoners of war.”
Quiet fell in the room. Sarkin Aung Wan, her gunmetal legs tucked up on the sofa, stopped clipping her fingernails. Stink Harris rose partly out of his chair then sank back again. Paul Berlin felt himself reaching for his weapon.
“I see,” the lieutenant said thoughtfully. “Yes, I think I see.”
He tapped his teeth with his index finger. The quiet returned. Bashfully, Li Van Hgoc studied his own hands.
“Yes,” the lieutenant finally sighed. “Now I’m beginning to see the stopper. I think I see it. POWs, you say?”
Li Van Hgoc bowed.
“And … and I suppose the rules can’t be stretched?”
“Not easily.”
“Of course.”
The little man smiled. “Elastic rules are a poor man’s tools.”
Paul Berlin had the odd feeling of breathing at the very top of his lungs, short little breaths that left him dizzy. One moment happily on the road to Paris, then buried back where it started, a prisoner of war. He was conscious of a clock ticking. A sense of compression and heat.
“POWs? Is that basically it? You’re saying we’re POWs?”
“I fear so.”
Absently, as if playing with beads, the lieutenant fingered the safety catch on his weapon. He flicked it back and forth in rhythm with the ticking clock.
“Of course,” Corson said gently, “we do have you outmanned.”
“Of course,” nodded Li Van Hgoc.
“Outmanned, not to mention outgunned.”
“Again, sir, that is a clear piece in the overall puzzle.”
“Outmanned, outgunned, and outtechnologized.” Lieutenant Corson tapped his forefinger against the weapon’s plastic stock.
“Well spoken,” the enemy said. “A neat summary of the issues. Very well spoken.”
The lieutenant tried hard to smile. “No summary,” he said. “Just the facts.” Getting up, he yawned and snuffed out the cigar. He motioned for Stink and Oscar to saddle up.
“Ah! Then you have found an answer?” Li Van Hgo
c beamed. He looked genuinely relieved. “Our difficulty has been solved?”
“A piece of cake.”
“Marvelous! Honestly, I cannot tell you how happy it makes me. Please, what is the solution to our puzzle?”
“This,” the lieutenant said softly.
Li Van Hgoc frowned. “I must be mistaken. That appears to be a rifle.”
“No kidding?” The lieutenant looked down at the leveled weapon. “By God, you’re right. That’s exactly what it seems to be.” He waved at Stink Harris. “Tie the little bastard up.”
“What?”
“Tie him.”
“With what?”
“His shoelaces, for Christ sake. Who cares what? Just tie him.”
“He’s got sandals. I can’t—”
“Tie him!”
So while Li Van Hgoc shook his head in a sad smile, Stink used strips of curtain to secure the little man’s feet and hands and arms.
Moving quickly, they spread out through the underground chambers. The routine was familiar. They broke up into teams. Eddie and Oscar set charges in the supply arsenal. Doc Peret and Paul Berlin destroyed the generating and electrical systems. And the lieutenant, showing new energy and command, took personal charge of dismantling the huge control console and operations center. Tied to his chair, Li Van Hgoc looked on with an odd smile. He did not protest until the lieutenant went to work on the prized periscope.
“Please,” he said. “As one officer to another, I ask that you desist.”
“Cork it.”
“Violence will not—” The man flinched as the lieutenant thrust his bayonet through the viewing lens. Bits of glass sprinkled to the floor. “Please! The puzzle, it cannot be solved this way.”
The lieutenant ignored him. Unscrewing the lens mechanism, he pushed his rifle up into the sleek machine and pulled the trigger six times.
Li Van Hgoc shuddered. “Don’t you see? This only makes more pieces. Each thing broken makes the puzzle more difficult. I urge you to cease.”
“Cut it.”
“Please!”
“I said to cut it.” The lieutenant pulled up a chair and looked the man in the eyes. “No more mumbo jumbo. I only wanna hear one thing. The sound of a dink giving directions. Now how do we get out of here?”
“It’s not—”
“How? Speakie straight.”
Li Van Hgoc slumped against the bindings. The pith hat was cocked far back on his head.
He sighed.
“If I knew,” he said wearily, “would I be here? Am I crazy?”
“Speak clear.”
The little officer wiggled his head until the pith hat settled straight, then he squinted to clear his vision.
“The puzzle,” he said, “is not yours alone. The simple answer is this: I don’t know.”
“Waste him,” Stink said.
“I don’t know.”
“Feed him to the worms. A Chinese cookie.”
“I don’t.” Suddenly the man sagged. His smile was gone. He was sobbing. His pith hat fell to the floor and spun like a top. The man’s hair was white.
“Victor Charles,” Stink said scornfully. “There he is the famous Charlie.”
The man wept. He shivered against his bindings. The weeping came in gasps, as snow breaks from cliffs.
“Take a long look,” Stink said. “The famous Victor Charles.”
The lieutenant poured brandy and held it to the man’s lips, gently patting his shoulder. Spittle dribbled down Li Van Hgoc’s chin.
Later, Li Van Hgoc told his story.
Though he looked fifty, he was in fact only twenty-eight. Born in Haiphong, raised in Hanoi. A good family, the best party credentials. On top of it, he had been a brilliant student, a wizard in electronics. His future held promise without limit. Then war came. He was drafted. It happened like that, he said—a notice in the mail. Frantic phone calls, visits to Lao Dong headquarters, letters from teachers and commendations from his priest and family doctor and headmaster. None of it worked. He was inducted, pushed through training, and seven months later he was given orders to travel south.
“A whole future destroyed,” Li Van Hgoc said, looking at the lieutenant with moist eyes. “Ruined by a war I never cared about, never even thought about. Ruined.”
The man took a deep breath. He blinked and looked at each of them. His eyes finally settled on Paul Berlin.
“So,” he said slowly, “I decided to resist. I … well, I ran. Imagine it! Confused, angry, frustrated. How do I describe the emotions? But, yes, I ran. For a time I lived with friends in a hamlet outside Hanoi. Then I simply wandered about the countryside, living as a beggar. Hiding, skulking. Eventually, of course, I was captured. The trial lasted eight minutes. Guilty.” Li Van Hgoc made an encompassing gesture with his head, a kind of rolling motion. “This was my sentence. Condemned to the tunnels. Ten years. And here I am.”
There was a short silence. The man’s eyes dropped.
Then Stink Harris grinned. “A deserter,” he said. “A fuckin sissy!”
The lieutenant waved for silence.
“Look,” he said softly. “That’s a touching tale. Real sad. But it doesn’t get us out of here. So I’ll ask it again: Which way out?”
The small officer managed a bitter smile.
“Don’t you see? Don’t you see that’s the whole point? No way out. That is the puzzle. We are prisoners, all of us. POWs.”
“Stick him,” Stink said. “Cut the miserable runt.”
But Li Van Hgoc seemed in a trance. “Ten years,” he said. “Ten terrible years.” The man’s lip trembled. “Ten years! An earthworm’s existence. Snakes and maggots and bats, rats and moles, lizards in my bed. How do I describe it? Terrifying? Insane? A prison with no exit. A maze, tunnels leading to more tunnels, passages emptying in passages, dead ends and byways and forks and twists and turns, darkness everywhere. Buried in this vast stinking … How do I tell it? Filth! Ten years, and for what? What?”
Again he was weeping. When finally the man gained control of himself, the lieutenant renewed the questioning. He was gentle. Patting the small man’s arm, he urged him to talk about means of escape. But Li Van Hgoc shook his head. No way, he said. He’d tried. For the first year it was all he’d done—crawling through the tunnels, looking for light, searching for hatchways or doors or ventilation holes. Hopeless. A maze without end. He was resigned now to wait out his ten years.
“Give up?” Lieutenant Corson said. “Quit?”
Li Van Hgoc shrugged. “Accept it. The land cannot be beaten. Here, at least, I have some small comforts. A few livable chambers in hell.”
The lieutenant examined his own hands. He kept turning them, studying first the palms, then the knuckles, then the fingernails. His mouth was formed in a loose frown, as though puzzled by something. The only sound was made by the slowly spinning ceiling fan.
Stink Harris had stopped grinning. Nervous, he began pacing, scratching at the ringworm on his scalp. Eddie and Doc and Oscar went silent. It was the sudden feeling of disaster. Not quite disaster—hopelessness. A caught feeling. The walls seemed closer now, tight; the air had a stale smell that hadn’t been there before.
The land, Paul Berlin kept thinking. A prisoner of war, caught by the land.
No one spoke.
Again there was the sound of a clock ticking in another room.
Sarkin Aung Wan uncurled her legs and stood up.
“There is a way,” she said.
The lieutenant kept studying his hands. The fingers trembled.
“The way in is the way out.”
Li Van Hgoc laughed but the girl ignored it.
“The way in,” she repeated, “is the way out. To flee Xa one must join it. To go home one must become a refugee.”
“Riddles!” Li Van Hgoc spat. “Insane!”
Sarkin Aung Wan took Paul Berlin’s hand. “Do you see?” she said. “You do need me.”
The small officer swayed against his bindings. “T
he broad is mad! No exits, no light.” He flicked his head to one side. “Out there … out there it is a stinking hell. Filth you can’t imagine! You would be lost in an instant. Lost forever! Accept it—we are prisoners, all of us.”
But Sarkin Aung Wan led Paul Berlin to a doorway.
“The way in is the way out,” she said. “We have fallen into a hole. Now we must fall out.”
“Fall out?” said the lieutenant.
“As easily as we fell in.”
The lieutenant paused a moment, still studying his hands. Then he shrugged. He pushed himself up and motioned for the others to get ready.
“She prattles like a madman!” Li Van Hgoc cried. “Mystic nonsense! I warn you again, out there you will perish without hope. Lost forever. Accept it!”
But the lieutenant waved at them to saddle up, and they slowly put on their packs, picked up their weapons, adjusted their helmets. There was no more talk. Eddie and Oscar tied up sacks of rice and dried fish and candy. Doc helped the old man into his rucksack. Then, when they were ready, the lieutenant untied Li Van Hgoc.
“You’re free to join us,” he said. “Chieu Hoi?”
The man’s face filled with terror. He grabbed an iron post.
“Never,” he whispered. “Execute me, shoot me dead, but I won’t step into that beastly hell. Never.” His voice shivered. “The land cannot be beaten. Accept it.”
The lieutenant hesitated. He rubbed his eyes, then glanced at Sarkin Aung Wan. She smiled. Moving across the chamber, she took the old man’s hand and led him out the door.
Eddie followed. Then Doc, then Oscar, then Stink, then Paul Berlin.
“Accept it!” a voice called after them. But already they were lost in the immense dark. They had fallen out.
Down and down. Or up and up, it was impossible to know. Sarkin Aung Wan led them single file through the black tunnels. Bats fluttered in the dark. Rodents, snakes, cobwebs stretching like curtains. The stench of death. Strange creatures underfoot, the blindness of graves. They walked hand in hand. When the passages narrowed, they crawled. Like sappers, Paul Berlin thought—on hands and knees, on their bellies. At times the heat was unbearable. A molten, hissing heat that scorched his lungs. Then the cold would come. They would hug themselves, stamp their feet, stiffen their backs. Then heat again. Then cold. But Sarkin Aung Wan led them on with the sureness that comes of knowledge. She moved swiftly. When their spirits flagged, she smiled and urged them on. Hours? Days? They slept in shifts, someone awake at all times to shoo off the rats. A maze, Paul Berlin kept thinking. Lost, condemned. He wondered what had gone wrong.
