The Shadow of Arms

by Hwang Sok-Yong

  Pham Minh drew the beads apart and went in to find the inside partitioned into dark windowless rooms. It seemed the exterior was for eating and the inside for drinking tea or liquor. He hesitated and somebody nudged him from behind, saying, “Keep going.”

  Minh looked back and saw that the waiter had followed him in. In the last partition, Minh found a middle-aged man in a white shirt and black pants with a cup of tea before him and his face buried in his hands.

  “This man here says he came to meet Uncle Nguyen Thach, sir.”

  The middle-aged man slowly looked up. His gentle face and the tiny wrinkles around his eyes reminded Minh of the principal of his primary school.

  “Are you Mr. Pham Minh who’s been attending Hue University?”

  “I am, yes.”

  “Sit down, please.”

  The man behind him left and Minh took a seat facing the middle-aged man.

  “Pardon me for asking, but did you bring your ID?”

  Minh took out his ID card and showed the man the yellow sticker authorizing travel issued by the Vietnamese government. It was an ID no less valuable than his own life. The man took it from Minh, examined it, and rose from his seat.

  “Come with me.”

  Minh followed him out through the back door of the pub to a filthy alley behind the market. Naked children were swarming all over the place and the air was rank from the garbage and dishwater tossed out into the street. They entered the back door of a shop that appeared to deal in medicinal herbs. Like everywhere in Asia, an old Westinghouse fan turned slowly on the ceiling overhead with the steady sound of metal rubbing on metal. An old man who had been dozing looked up at them and exchanged nods with the man. They went upstairs. Before the door opened, Minh recognized the voice of one of his friends.

  “The National Liberation Front is the only democratic force in Vietnam. We will be the ones to achieve unification. The peace conference accords must be abrogated.”

  As the door opened the voice fell silent. A young man in black who’d had his back to the door turned around.

  “Pham Minh, so you’ve come.”

  “Thanh.”

  Minh shook Thanh’s hand. It was hard and rough. Minh examined his friend’s bony face and shining eyes.

  “I heard at school that you were coming. Where have you been?”

  “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s start here . . .”

  Thanh introduced Minh to the seven young men in the room: two middle school teachers, three young draftees, and two AWOL soldiers. The middle-aged man who had escorted Minh there was the last to hold out his hand, saying, “I’m the Uncle Nguyen Thach you’ve been looking for.” He silently counted all those present and said, “Everyone’s here, apparently. Or is someone missing?”

  “Pham Minh is the last comrade, sir,” answered Thanh. “Everything is set for departure?”

  Thach nodded.

  “We’re leaving by cargo truck. Is there anyone whose government ID is not in order?”

  The two AWOL soldiers raised their hands.

  “No one else except these two?” Thanh looked about. “We’ve got to get your pictures taken first. We can easily buy the IDs in the market, and it takes less than half an hour to forge them.”

  Nguyen Thach pointed toward a bedroom behind the curtains. “In a wooden basket back there you’ll find outfits for eight. There’s also some canteens and bread. You two, come with me.”

  Thanh spoke to Nguyen Thach as he was about to leave. “I need your signature here, please.”

  “Oh, yes, sure.”

  Tapping his finger on his forehead, Thach turned back and signed the document Thanh held out.

  “It’s region eight, third city. What day is it today, and the date?”

  Nguyen Thach told him.

  “I can’t even say what year this is,” Thanh said.

  “It happens when you live in the jungle.”

  After Nguyen Thach left with the two men to have their photos taken, Thanh said, “That guy . . . he was a graduate at the university. Now he’s in charge of this district.”

  Pham Minh thought of the young men who had thrown grenades into the American officers’ club not long before.

  “Is he the one in charge of combat?” Minh asked.

  “Nguyen Thach is not someone who takes part in firefights. He is . . . well, he is an underground organizer.”

  “Does headquarters know we’ve volunteered?” one of the teachers asked.

  “I’m not sure. But once you depart your names will go on the roster of the district committee. You’re not the only ones who want to fight imperialism.”

  Pham Minh sat on the windowsill and watched the crowded shops on the street below. The cool breeze from the pier billowed the cheap material of the curtains like sails. Thanh offered him a Trong cigarette. The two men took a deep puff, exhaled the smoke that smelled of grass, and looked out the window.

  “You’re the only one from Da Nang.”

  “And the other guys?”

  “Not from Da Nang . . .”

  “Where are they taking us?”

  Thanh hesitated for a moment, then said, “I’m only taking you as far as Tungdik.”

  “Do you have a government issue pass? I mean from there, it’s a liberated district.”

  “You really don’t know?” Thanh said with a sigh as he looked at Minh. “Even on the outskirts of Da Nang, it’s all our zone of occupation. The enemy is no more than tiny specks floating in our ocean. At night we even occupy the few checkpoints and control posts that they have. From Tungdik, you’ll enter the Atwat Mountains. I trained at Dong Hoi training camp, but you’ll be sent to the Atwat Mountains.”

  “I could always see the Atwat Mountains in the distance when I went out into the fields. But how come we’re going there?”

  “That’s where guerrillas are being trained,” Thanh replied. Realizing he’d said too much, he hastily added, “Whether it’ll be Atwat or the Ho Chi Minh Trail, I can’t say for sure.”

  “Think I’ll be stationed in a city?”

  “I don’t know,” Thanh tried to evade Minh’s question. “I suppose those from the city will be assigned to cities and those from the country to the country.”

  “And you’ll be . . .”

  Thanh crushed the cigarette butt with his foot and said, “The first unwritten law of the NLF5 is never ask the mission or unit of your comrades. Each individual is like a single cell of his own small unit. Besides that, all you need to know is that you’re a member of the special operations corps receiving your orders directly from the district committee and central headquarters.”

  Feeling his words were too harshly formal, Thanh put his arm on Minh’s shoulder and said, “Sorry, you’ll learn it in time. Have you been home?”

  Minh shook his head and said, “I saw Shoan.”

  “Shoan ... oh, you mean, Chan Te Shoan. Listless girl, always reminds me of a sick canary. Her entire family is Catholic, aren’t they?”

  “Don’t talk about her like that.”

  Minh blushed and Thanh stopped talking. Then Minh spoke, fumbling with the words.

  “Shoan is . . . a poor Vietnamese woman . . . like those you can see in Saigon, in Hue, here in Da Nang, everywhere.”

  “True. I’m sorry. But women are not the only ones poor. The whole nation is poor. Go anywhere around a foreign army base. The houses there are like little whorehouse boxes. Little brother is drumming up customers, father is standing lookout, mother is taking the money, and sister is selling her body.”

  Thanh’s voice gradually got louder and his eyes reddened as he went on.

  “Generally, the living will survive. But some children will die setting booby traps, some girls will accidentally be killed by guerrilla bombs. And then there’re those who must be executed because they
happen to have taken the side of the enemy. It’s all because this is a struggle for the people.”

  An aroma of bananas frying in oil floated through the window from outside.

  “What time do we leave tomorrow?’ Minh asked.

  “Around seven . . . maybe a little earlier or later.”

  “I have to go somewhere first,” Minh said, getting to his feet.

  “You can’t. You’ve already made yourself a member of the organization.”

  One of the teachers who had been eavesdropping with the others came over to Minh and said aggressively, “We can’t trust you. Nobody should leave this room.”

  Minh looked around at them. Then he plopped back down on a chair beside the window. After a long while Thanh came near him and said in a low voice, “All right. Go. But you have to be back here before dawn breaks tomorrow.”

  Walking Pham Minh to the door, Thanh added in a loud voice meant to be heard by everyone, “It’s urgent, so hurry to make the contact. And try to be back in time to get some sleep.”

  Thanh stopped at the top of the stairs and quickly whispered to Minh, “I get it. Say hi to Shoan for me.”

  Minh left in a hurry out the back door of the herb shop and turned down Le Loi Boulevard. He meant to go to Dong Dao. He didn’t know if Shoan would be there or not, but he thought a quick visit to Uncle Trinh would help calm his restless and troubled heart.

  Footnotes:

  4 Post exchange

  5 National Liberation Front

  3

  As soon as the helicopter landed at the base, the MAC6 ambulances began streaming in. The corpses were stacked neatly in the multi-shelved compartments. The wounded were grouped into pairs, each with a medic tending to them as they climbed in. Sirens roared. Pilots who had finished for the day strolled by, chewing gum. Yong Kyu and Sergeant Yun made their way off the runway with the government property boxes on their shoulders.

  “Now,” Yun said. “I’m going to hitch a ride from the Americans and drive out to China Beach . . . and you’ll have to head downtown.”

  “I don’t know the city at all.”

  Yong Kyu was lugging the box as if it were his own and Sergeant Yun looked over his pathetic appearance again. A miserable getup—the graffiti-covered helmet, the automatic rifle and ammo belt, the ragged jungle uniform and the sun-scorched face. The sergeant was quick to make up his mind.

  “Fine. As you’re moving into such a high post . . . ’’

  Sergeant Yun put his box down, walked over to the sentry box, and made a phone call. “I called the Bamboo Club,” he said to Yong Kyu when he came back. “They’ll come get you.”

  “What kind of club is it?”

  “It’s an off-duty hangout for investigation division personnel.”

  After setting the two boxes on the ground in front of him Sergeant Yun and waved his thumb at every Jeep and truck that passed by. A three-quarter ton stopped. Yong Kyu handed the boxes up to the sergeant who yelled down from the truck, “We’ll see each other again soon enough. We both have a lot to gain from a friendship.”

  “See you later.”

  After the sergeant left, Yong Kyu sat down on his helmet along the asphalt curb next to the sentry post. The American military base extended down along the shore. Nobody paid any attention to him. Military vehicles passed by and once in a while a kind-hearted driver paused to ask if he needed a ride. Everything was quiet except for the occasional sound of a helicopter taking off and landing.

  A Jeep—yellow and black instead of olive green—came speeding up. As it passed, Yong Kyu saw “Philco-Ford Co.” written on the door. The Jeep drove into the heliport, then circled around and headed back out towards Yong Kyu. It stopped in front of him.

  “Korean CID?”

  “Yes.”

  The American made chin and hand gestures as he spoke. Yong Kyu looked puzzled, so he grumbled, “Christ’s sake, get in. Don’t you speak English?”

  Yong Kyu picked up his helmet and climbed up to sit beside him. In his head he was forming simple English sentences in his head, along the lines of: “I-am-a-boy.”

  “You are CID, too?”

  “That’s why I’m here to get you.”

  “You are a soldier?”

  “Marine Corps, Sergeant,” answered the American with a grin. “Call me Beck.”

  “I am Corporal Ahn.”

  “What’s your story? Been in battle?”

  “For six months.”

  Beck whistled in surprise. They drove by a bridge. The soldiers guarding it were shooting at some kind of wreckage floating down from upstream.

  “Hot out. What’s the cover?”

  “We aren’t in on that. We’re not in field operations.”

  Beck made a quick radio transmission over the noise.

  “This is a CID Jeep?”

  “Yeah. We play civilians. This Jeep looks just like one of Philco’s or Vinelli’s.”

  “Where do the Koreans stay?”

  “They’re at a hotel.”

  “Hotel?”

  Turning towards Yong Kyu, Beck burst into a hearty laugh.

  Palm trees flew by. On both sides of the road clean white French colonial-style buildings came into view. The city was spacious and geometrical and looked like a resort in a postcard. The wooden latticed window shutters were a blinding white under the beating sun. Vines of a deep green crept up the walls of the buildings. An armored personnel carrier stood in one corner of the intersection. Judging from the wire barricades around the armored car tank and the sandbagged sentry post, some sections of the city become off-limits at night.

  Along both sides of the street, schoolgirls in white ahozai were walking in lines. School seemed to be out for the day. Their long hair and the ao dai clinging to their slender figures made for a beautiful sight.

  “Pretty, aren’t they?”

  Beck sped up, honking loudly. Yong Kyu did not respond but Beck went on talking.

  “You’re a Korean, aren’t you? Your girls are also nice. There were two Korean girls in the strip show at the club last night. Both of them looked exactly like American women.”

  “You mean an American army club?”

  “Yes, but Koreans can go there if they’re working for investigation. No gooks, though.”

  “What are gooks?”

  “Vietnamese. They’re really filthy. But you’re like us. We’re the Allies.”

  The Jeep made a circle and came to a stop in front of a five-story building. A long balcony and colorful awnings hanging from it provided shade. The structure itself looked old but, like bank buildings in Seoul, it was a dignified edifice with solid marble walls adorned with leaf and flower carvings. Yong Kyu hesitated.

  “This way,” Beck said, gesturing.

  As they pushed open the large glass door to enter the building, a Vietnamese guard with a gun at the ready glared at Yong Kyu. Beck told him as they walked past, “He’s an agent with the investigation division.”

  The guard nodded. Men in suits and white shirts walked through the hallways. Walking up the spiral staircase, Beck said, “There’s only one elevator, reserved for officers. Lower ranks take the stairs.”

  The two men hurried up to the fifth floor. Beck came to a door and knocked.

  “Come in,” said a voice from inside. Beck opened the door and pushed Yong Kyu in first. There were two bunks side by side, and room seemed to open into an adjoining room. An obese man with nothing but a huge towel covering his naked body was enjoying the cool breeze from an air conditioner. Beck grabbed his nose and yelped.

  “Geez! That stink! You cooked those noodles again.”

  Yong Kyu recognized the smell of kimchi. On an unplugged hotplate there was a pot and a K-ration can. It had to be walsunma ramyon that the man was cooking, instant noodles supplied t
o the Korean forces.

  “Here’s your man,” Beck said.

  Without getting up, the fat man murmured, “Thank you, thank you.”

  Beck gave Yong Kyu a pat on the back and left the room. Not knowing the rank of the man he had woken from a nap, Yong Kyu straightened his posture. Grabbing his rifle’s strap he struck his helmet with a crisp salute. Then, according to regulations for reporting, he began to shout.

  The man scratched his head, then said in an annoyed tone, “You, shut your mouth up. Why the hell are you screaming like that?”

  Embarrassed and unsure what to do next, Yong Kyu began his report again, this time in a quiet voice. But the man lazily interrupted, “Cut it out. And take off your helmet and put it over there. Also get rid of that ugly M16.”

  “Yes, sir! Understood, sir!”

  “Bastard, there you go screaming again. This whole hotel will be on emergency alert because of you.”

  Yong Kyu was in fact much too loud.

  “This is not a brigade,” the man said as he sipped what was left of the Coca-Cola in his glass. “This is the Grand Hotel, a gathering point for the administrative agents of the Allied forces in Da Nang.”

  Yong Kyu snapped to attention and nearly yelled “Yes, sir!” again. The man yawned and picked up the telephone receiver.

  “Hey, he’s here. . . . Yes, just now.”

  The man plopped back down on the bed. Hungover, probably, as he definitely hadn’t been fighting the night before. His eyes were all bloodshot. His bloated belly, covered with a khaki towel, moved up and down as he breathed. Somebody walked into the room behind Yong Kyu. It was a civilian with very long hair, wearing a loud orange T-shirt and white pants. His shoes were slick and shiny and the crease in his pants was sharp as a razor. With an unpleasant grin he looked over Yong Kyu’s unsightly appearance.

  “Freshly scooped out of the mud. You know somebody high up back there, don’t you.”

  “No, sir!”

  “Huh, damned stiff you are. At ease. At ease in the easiest position in Da Nang. What did it cost you?”

  “Sorry, sir?”

  “Hey, boy, you have any idea what kind of assignment this is?”