The Shadow of Arms

by Hwang Sok-Yong

  “We have ten electric fans and three refrigerators, sir.”

  “Peanuts,” said the chairman with a soft laugh. “Anyway, you guys have worked hard. Hey, bring them something cold to drink.”

  “You met our kid, didn’t you?” the staff sergeant asked.

  “Yeah, he helped us get through the checkpoints,” replied the master sergeant.

  “Too much red tape. Why not just get us each an ID?”

  “Sure. So you could run all the way to Saigon?”

  “It was a joke. Too much stress for a five-hundred-dollar job, that’s what I meant to say.”

  “Listen, five hundred is the price of a dozen soldiers’ lives.”

  “That’s why we never kill each other. We love peace, that’s what I say.”

  The staff sergeant and Oh were about the same size, but their voices were completely different. Oh’s was much shriller and his speech faster.

  “Don’t be so difficult. While you’re well-positioned, why not lend us a hand,” said the chairman. “By the way, how come beer and cigarettes are so hard to come by?”

  “They arrive only twice a month.”

  “Hmmm. Let’s make a deal on them, then.”

  But the sergeant was not an easy mark. “Special items like that are in high demand everywhere in the market.”

  The PX chief liberated the goods, the staff sergeant got them downtown, and there the Hong Kong Group was in charge of selling them. Now the chief was saying that cigarettes and beer, unlike luxury items, could easily be sold in the market, and that their group should stay out of it. The chairman gave the staff sergeant a sly look.

  “We have a channel for selling to the clubs. Shall I let you in on a secret?”

  The chairman paused, taking a few leisurely sips of his juice.

  “Even if you try to feed the market a large quantity at one time, nine times out of ten the cash doesn’t get recycled fast enough or there’s a shortage of military currency. The main thing is to get the money safely and securely. The solidarity of the Vietnamese businessmen is fierce. If you push against their front, they’ll take all the beer there is and then cut the price in half. To form and support the market price, we’ll have to cooperate. In Da Nang there are about thirty bars, four clubs, three hotels, and the tearooms and sidewalk cafes, and they all sell beer. Beer doesn’t go into the market. All we have to do is get a hold on the outlets. We’ll stockpile the goods and unload them a little at a time. What do you say? They can pay us cash for each transaction or wait until the deliveries accumulate to a pallet and then pay a lump sum.”

  “It’ll leave no trace,” said the staff sergeant, nodding.

  “You see, one pallet is eighty boxes. And a truck can carry three pallets. How many cans in 240 boxes?”

  “It’s 4800 cans, sir.”

  “That alone should affect the price. Suppose there are twenty pallets pouring out each day from wherever, that’d depress the market price. Then we should get them to discriminate among the brands, make a brand rare and inflate its price. After all, it’s the taste of the Vietnamese that’s important to us. Then we can supply the rare item at a better price than the other brands.”

  “Like Salem cigarettes, you mean?” Oh asked.

  “Exactly, Salem brings twenty cents more a pack than Pall Mall, Winston or the other filtered brands. Mr. Oh, there’s something similar with beers, isn’t there?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s the one called Hamm’s.”

  “Right. We’ll only deal in Hamm’s. We can feed it directly to the bars and clubs.”

  The master sergeant listened, nodding, and then checked his watch. “I’ve got to get going . . .”

  “How about getting the money for this at the next deal?” Oh said, but the chairman shook his head.

  “No, on the battlefield there’s no tomorrow. It’s got to be a head-to-head collision. Isn’t that right?”

  “Of course, sir,” said the master sergeant with a grin, looking relieved.

  The chairman took out a roll of military currency from the inner pocket of his jacket. The sum had been counted in advance, mostly in thirty-dollar notes.

  “Here’s the deal . . . as a rule, we pay shares of profit after the goods have been disposed of, but I’ll pay you that this time as well.”

  The chairman counted out the profit, which was calculated separately. “The market price for a refrigerator ranges from $200 to $250 dollars.”

  “They’re Hitachis, medium-sized.”

  “Then, they go for $200. You paid eighty a piece, right? That makes a profit of $360. What about the fans?”

  “Sony, twenty dollars each, sir,” announced Oh, who was standing by to assist.

  “Then the principal cost is 200, that’s correct. Then, since the market price is forty, the profit will be 200. Our take is $560, then, right?”

  “Divided in half will be $280, sir.”

  The chairman counted $280 and handed it over to the master sergeant, and then gave eighty dollars to the staff sergeant.

  “Here’s the fee for the ID.”

  “This is nothing.”

  “You should pay, too.”

  The PX chief also took out eighty dollars and handed it to the staff sergeant.

  “Hell, it’s peanuts . . .”

  “We’re the ones who should be complaining. Driving the car and sweating to death for a measly $200,” Oh grumbled.

  “I have to get going.”

  “What do you say, about the business I mentioned. . .?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “This is our first deal with the Korean soldiers,” the chairman said as he saw the master sergeant out. “The Americans, once you level with them, never any mistakes with those kids.”

  The truck could be heard driving away. Another man with a crew cut came in and said, “There’s a message from a customer, sir.”

  “Take Pan with you and go.”

  “But the payment . . .”

  “We’ve arranged to meet at the Bamboo.”

  “Fine.”

  The crew cut left and Oh came in.

  “Chairman, what’s this? All that fuss for $200?”

  “You’re too greedy, your guts are hanging out from your belly, might as well carry them in a bag,” the chairman said, poking Oh’s fat stomach. “Look, you should let your guts swell a little at a time. This is only the first of many new deals.”

  “And if there’s any mistake, I’m the one who gets caught,” said the staff sergeant, putting his money in his pocket.

  “Pointer is the one who’ll get caught,” said the chairman. What he meant was that the master sergeant, not even a detachment chief, was far too greedy. The chairman lined up the mahjong tiles for a new game.

  “Gluttony will make you sick. You’ll be doing business with us only when we deal with the Korean soldiers.”

  “Let’s not be too harsh, now.”

  “Look, we’re only civilians. If you feel wronged, then take off the uniform.”

  The staff sergeant got up. Thinking he was angry, the chairman grew uneasy and said, “I was just kidding, you know. I’ll have you earning a hundred dollars a day. You said you’re headed home in three months, right? Ten thousand is a sum even the Americans would shoot each other for.”

  “The PXs, all three of them, are under my charge.”

  “I know. That’s why I invited you in.”

  The staff sergeant stopped the station wagon as it was about to leave. “Give me a lift to Doc Lap.”

  “The Dragon Palace?”

  The Vietnamese, Pan, moved to the back seat and the staff sergeant got in the car. He thought he should, after all, look for a broker who could put him in direct touch with Vietnamese dealers. Then every transaction that went through the PX would fall into his hands.
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  7

  “The surest way for the people to liberate themselves is through revolutionary violence and revolutionary war. There are many forms of revolutionary violence: a political violence, an armed violence, and a violence that combines the two. Against the policies of the enemy that firmly maintain an absolute grip on politics and at the same time exploit military forces as a political weapon to suppress our revolution, our Vietnamese comrades now must exercise a political violence coupled with armed revolt.

  “Thanks to the revolutionary struggle waged by our comrades, we have learned how to revive our people and how to develop our precious experience.”

  Pham Minh was reading a speech given by General Vo Nguyen Giap published in Hoc Tap.

  “Unification can be realized through the accomplishment of the socialist revolution in the North and of the national democratic revolution in the South, thereby overcoming internal conflicts and jointly calling forth the subliminal national consciousness.”

  He couldn’t keep reading because of the sound of the rain. It was pouring outside. The morning session of political education was over and discussion was scheduled for the afternoon. The pinging of raindrops striking the broad leaves of surrounding trees filled the entire space of the open quarters. Ten of his comrades were staying together there on bamboo bunks. It was a large thatched hut, with palm leaves fastened over the straw roof for camouflage. From the sky it blended into the dark green of the jungle. A dozen similar structures had been built along the edge of the dense rainforest. It was a conveniently located assembly point for guerrilla volunteers sent by their respective regional committees. After assembling there, they would be sent on to the provisional military school for training.

  The eight men who had departed from Da Nang had left heading westward on a freight truck bound for the Central Highlands. Thanh sat next to the driver and the others rode in the back with their assorted gear. They passed easily through several checkpoints near Da Nang by showing their IDs, but the inspections got stricter as they went deeper in. They made a space in the middle of the truck’s bed under sacks of rice, dried fish, and the other miscellaneous cargo they were hauling from the city. There was so little room that the seven of them in the back had to be cramped together with legs bent and nearly entwined. At checkpoints, they could overhear the casual dialogue exchanged between Thanh and the police.

  “Long time no see. How are your nephews doing?”

  “Thanks to you they’re fine. How’re things on the other side?”

  “Operations have been stepped up, so all the roads have been completely blocked. You’ll probably have to make a detour through the mountains.”

  “Thanks. Let me and my nephews through.”

  “Tell them your destination is a village half a mile on; they’ll be less suspicious.”

  After the cursory checking of the cargo in the back, the truck was allowed to pass. From that checkpoint onward was an area where control was contested. From the standpoint of the NLF it was a liberated area, but ever since the US and government forces started their pacification operations no vehicles were allowed through without inspection. When they reached a mountain pass and heard gunfire and shelling, the truck turned back and they continued on foot.

  “The infiltration is getting worse. The chief guard at that last checkpoint was one of our sympathizers, but you never know when he’ll change his mind. I suppose he’ll cooperate as long as his family lives in our territory. There’s been some change in the situation, so we’ll have to march through these highlands for three days or so.”

  With Thanh as guide the group made their way through the area of battle operations. A few times US patrols passed right by their hiding places and they were fired upon more than once. One of the group, a former teacher, was wounded. They kept walking, taking turns helping him.

  In the depths of the jungle, with monkeys howling and lizards slithering, it felt like being stranded in purgatory. As they reached the edge of Tungdik army territory, the injured man died. His wound had gotten infected and they could not stop the bleeding. All they had to give him was some antibiotics Thanh brought with him. An unbearable stench had begun to emanate from his legs, which were swollen and black like rotting tree trunks. As he grew closer to dying, he had to be carried by Pham Minh and one of the ARVN7 deserters on a stretcher they had fashioned from vines and branches.

  The teacher moved his parched, chapped lips, moaning Rrr . . . rrrk rrrk.

  “Thanh, we’ve got to give him some water.”

  Thanh checked the map they had wrapped around the man’s knee as a bandage. “We have to reach the Tungdik army zone before sunset. There’s no time to lose.”

  Thanh went over to the stretcher where Pham Minh and the other bearer had set it down. Another in the group held out a vinyl bag filled with water. Pham Minh pulled out the stopper and placed the bag at the mouth of the wounded teacher. Most of the water spilled to the ground.

  “He’s dead,” said Thanh.

  His mind blank, Pham Minh kept his eyes on the little bit of water that flowed slowly, uselessly, into the open mouth as if down a sink drain. Between the wet lips, the even teeth stuck together like welded metal. Thanh lifted his hand to the motionless eyes and swept the lids closed.

  “Long live the Vietnamese liberation,” he murmured quietly.

  Then Thanh went through the dead man’s pockets to remove his personal effects and took his backpack, made from pieces of a raincoat. Among the items he picked up, Thanh took out the yellow ID card issued by the Vietnamese government and tossed it down on the corpse’s chest. They resumed their march. The jungle downpours and the burning midday heat would soon peel off his rotting flesh and before long he would become a human skeleton so clean that not even the flies would bother it.

  As soon as they reached Tungdik territory, another liaison agent took Thanh’s place. Before departing Thanh took Minh over to a shady spot under a tree. The two were about the same age but Thanh looked much older. The determination in his eyes, his hair cut short like a peasant’s and the shine of his darkly tanned cheeks made him look like a man over thirty. Pham Minh was exhausted. He realized that one day he too would be a grown man. Thanh spoke warmly as he would have to a beloved younger brother.

  “I’m headed back to my duty assignment. You’ll stay here for a week before being sent for training at the school in Atwat.”

  “Are you going back to Da Nang?”

  “No . . . I’m posted at Hue. We may never see each other again. I expect the district committee may give me a new mission. Not on underground assignments anymore, probably leading an action group. I’ve been out of action for some time.”

  “I’ll come and see you in Hue.”

  “Come and see me?”

  Thanh laughed. When he laughed, his face looked just like when he was a little boy. Minh remembered way back to New Year’s when they used to throw fireworks made from hollow bamboo sticks at the houses in the neighborhood. When the women saw the beautiful sparks flying followed by the loud cracks, they handed out sweet rice cakes and candies, thanking them for scaring away all the evil spirits.

  And he remembered the time when Thanh had been bitten by a dog at the old rubber factory run by the French. When a brown-haired foreign woman tried to treat his wound he shook his head, weeping. For he had heard dozens of times from his mother and brother that his father had died because of those French people. But those were the happy days.

  Thanh was tall and skinny and Minh had been a sissy-looking boy known for his sweet singing voice. As his voice deepened, as mortar shells destroyed the lilacs at the Lycée Pascal, everything had changed. All that was gone now. The peace accords were shattered. Then along came the elections. Until then neither Thanh nor Minh thought about the future of Vietnam. When their parents spoke of Dien Bien Phu, to the boys it was no more than a far-off place as vague as the places in their
French readers, like the Eiffel Tower or the River Seine.

  “The training period at Atwat will probably be two months,” Thanh said with a grave look on his face. “I trust you will be a skilled guerrilla.”

  Thanh seemed purposely to limit his talk to matters of military duty, so Minh blurted out, “Thanh, when you go to Da Nang . . . why don’t you see your parents, at least once?”

  Thanh put his hand on Minh’s shoulder. For the first time since leaving Da Nang his expression was warm and friendly.

  “You’d rather I see Chan Te Shoan than my own parents, right?”

  Pham Minh turned his head and did not reply. Perhaps there was truth in what Thanh had said.

  “Whether you return to Da Nang or go to Hue, or to Saigon, in any event, by then you will have forgotten about Shoan. To be a liberation fighter does not only mean that you’ll be turned into a man capable of fighting, it means you’ll be born again as a revolutionist with an entirely new body and soul. That our grandfather Ho was born in Quimluyen in Nghe An province as Nguyen Sinh Cung meant a meaningless birth under colonialism. However, when he later returned from abroad to Indochina using the name Nguyen Ai Quoc, he was born again as a member of the Vietnamese race. And that he came to be called Ho Chi Minh was because he devoted his whole life to leading the Vietnamese people. Pham Minh, there’s no time for us to look back.”

  Pham Minh was perplexed by the icy zeal in Thanh’s voice.

  “Well, I was just talking about . . . about your parents,” Minh falteringly said. “Your mother is . . .”

  “A very good woman,” Thanh said hastily, as if to cut Minh off. “She brought me into this world. Like Vietnam did. By the way, when you . . . well, this is a tough question for anyone, but if you are about to die, who’d be the first person you’d want notified?”

  The question stung, like pricking a finger on a thorn. During the past three days on the way to Tungdik territory, the possibility of death had hung over them the entire time.

  “In revolution there are only two outcomes. Either to be killed by the enemy or to win victory. Death is one’s own, but victory belongs to the masses. Pham Minh, the chance you will die alone is a thousand times more likely. Unless we firmly believe that victory is ours after we die, an all-out struggle of this kind can never last. When that moment of death comes to you, whom do you want to be informed first, that is what I am asking. Your mother? Your brother? . . . Chan Te Shoan?”