Yong Kyu darted a glance at Lukas. Then, pretending to have heard nothing, he went on smoking. Lukas hesitated for a moment before going on.
“Your sergeant, he’s peddling too much beer. And he’s doing it with civilians.”
“I know it and the captain knows it, too. Look, Lukas, you should understand all about it. Our duty is to control black market dealings that violate military regulations. But we know that, depending on the local situation, there are times that you people, too, aid and abet black market dealers, or plunge into dealing yourselves. We also know that you have earmarked funds in your budget for local hires or welfare expenses that are used to run such undercover operations. It’s the same with us. We can’t ask you for intelligence or covert operations money. If that sergeant out there keeps on letting his personal prejudices get in the way of our cooperation, I’ll dig into the dirt in your side’s dealings down to the minute details.”
“Don’t misunderstand. The problem is that your sergeant is working with civilians and third-country nationals. They’ve been a headache for us for a long time. The scope of their dealings is much too broad. So it’s not easy for us to keep track of them. We can’t tell when they might be making deals with the wrong people for dangerous goods.”
“All right, you want us to expel the civilians, is that it?”
“No, you don’t have to go that far. We just want them to scale back the range of their transactions.”
“That’s for us to handle. So, you also want our team leader to be split from them, no?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Within a week we’ll have the scope of their dealings reduced. We’ve been working on that already, too. This is a different matter, but based on my report and the refund request I submitted, you’ll give the two soldiers their money back, won’t you?”
“Once they check the inventory records tomorrow afternoon, they’ll send the money to the investigation office. Then we’ll hand it back to you.”
Yong Kyu rose from the chair. Now the dispute had been settled. And all the points of difference were in the open. They were the ones who had picked a fight, perhaps deliberately to poke at sore spots on his side. As a result, Yong Kyu now had confirmed what he had suspected, that the clumsiness of the team leader was an open secret. He shook hands with Lukas and spoke once more as he left the room.
“Tell your sergeant I apologize. It wasn’t a personal thing. And I’ll not forget that we should never interfere with each other’s duties.”
Yong Kуu returned to the office. The driver from the recreation center had just arrived.
Yong Kyu asked the private, “When’s your leave over?”
“We’re returning to our unit tomorrow afternoon, sir.”
“I see. They’ll give back your money, but not until the day after tomorrow. So I’ll advance it to you tomorrow. And, you, over at the rec center there are quite a few boys with ration cards, right?”
“Some of the boys in the army band unit have cards.”
“Tomorrow, after you get back from going to Turen with me, be sure to buy a TV and a tape recorder for these boys, OK?”
“Shit, why not?”
The two soldiers saluted once again, their posture still that of penitents being disciplined.
“Hey, enough cringing. No need for that. Take it easy and take care.”
They left and Yong Kyu was sitting in the office by himself. The curtains were flapping in the stiff wind off the South China Sea. To maintain the business at Turen, he had to keep a close eye on the activities of the American side. He remembered the advice of Blue Jacket Kang when the duties were transferred: transactions in combat supplies was the most delicate issue, and neither the Americans nor the Koreans shared their top-secret intelligence on that. The most hidden part is also the most important; as long as we have thorough information on that, the Koreans will be safe to plunge into any transaction in Da Nang; and that is precisely the most vulnerable area for the Americans and the Vietnamese. Yong Kyu had nоt forgotten a single point.
On Monday at twelve-thirty Yong Kyu went to the Y-junction by the garbage dump where Route 1 split to head for Turen and downtown Da Nang. He waited there, wearing American jungle fatigues, a work hat, and his sunglasses. Children passed by, from time to time shouting “Pilluktang!” They must have taken him for a Filipino who had enlisted in the US Army.
He looked about for a while, then walked into a noodle shop. He bought a can of coke and sipped it sitting at a table. The only other occupants of the shop were the owners, an old Vietnamese couple. The old man approached Yong Kyu and babbled something in Vietnamese. Then he repeated “Cigareh, cigareh.” When Yong Kyu took a pack out of his pocket and offered him one, the old man said “beaucoup.” Many? The old man wanted to buy the pack.
Yong Kyu waved both hands and said, “Toi kai dor gong ban.”
He refused to sell his pack, but the old man kept staring at him for a long time as if he could not believe what he had heard. At last, a truck slowly pulled up to the junction and stopped. Yong Kyu climbed inside.
“It’s a little late . . .”
“The supply convoy passes here between twelve-thirty and twelve-forty.”
“How do you know?”
“We used to have our supplies delivered here.”
“And now?”
“We go directly to the docks at the supply unit.”
“Do you get deliveries every day?”
“No, only once a week.”
Yong Kyu had not thought of that place. Besides, it was almost in the heart of downtown. He recalled there were a few old barracks beside a rundown old factory and next to them the air force warehouses were lined up. It functioned as a relay point between the Turen supply warehouse and the brigade, and also as a liaison office where Korean personnel dispatched to Da Nang were issued their equipment and supplies. Only the American armed forces were excluded. The quantity of goods passing through may not have been so much, but it was an important location nonetheless.
The downtown supply unit was located only one block from the piers. That’s right, he recalled, all the beer for the military was unloaded on those piers. He’d forgotten the biggest route for beer. The Vietnamese consumers had acquired a taste for Korean canned beer, and in the market it brought almost the same price as the American top-of-the-line brand, Hamm’s. Maybe the American sergeant back at the American forces investigation office was peeved about the high price of Korean beer on the black market.
If so, maybe there were cross lines to siphon beer out of the regular distribution channels.
In the brigade, Koreans only drank Korean beer. But beer was not classified as food, so it was outside the ration planning quotas. The amount consumed was unpredictable, varying greatly depending on the random distribution of the elbow-benders. PX goods were always paid for in dollars, and then resold for dollars on the black market. But Korean beer, whether it went straight to the brigade and made its way back out, or slipped into the black market on the way from the supply unit. It has a hot trade. It was the only item that could easily be traded as well as sold to convert profits into American military currency.
Just like with the specialty foods like almonds and peanuts, even when they leaked out, since they were purchased and sold for dollars, the ones suffering the loss in the end would be the Vietnamese city dwellers who consumed them. The war supplies, on the other hand, were bought and eaten by the families of Vietnamese merchants, bureaucrats, and military officers. It was like the delicate web of a deep-sea food chain. The item that had been hardest for them to get a grip on was none other than the Korean beer constantly streaming in from the piers.
“Why didn’t I think of it before?” murmured Yong Kyu aloud.
The driver, not privy to his train of thought, said, “Think of what, sir?”
“Oh, never mind. Hey, do
you get the beer for the rec center from the PX?”
“No. Why drink American beer when we have our own? When a holiday for the forces is approaching we load a large quantity at one time. The brigade also gets theirs from the supply detachment downtown.”
Absorbed in trying to compose his thoughts, Yong Kyu did not even notice the plumes of red dust approaching from the south on Route 1. As the driver started the engine, he turned to the left quickly and saw the convoy’s escort Jeep approach with its headlights burning. A platoon of infantry marching along the edge of the road with its sandbag walls on either side presently disappeared, enveloped in the dust. The parade of vehicles made a terrible clatter as they turned at the Y-junction, keeping a wide spread between each. When the last Jeep passed by, they pulled out and fell into the file. They had no trouble passing through the east gate of the Turen supply warehouse. The truck pulled up in front of a B-ration warehouse. Leon, who had been on the lookout for them, gave them a wink as he stood there with his ledger in hand.
“So you survived, kid.”
Leon shook his head wildly. “Whew, you’re one crazy bastard. I did nothing but sleep all day yesterday.”
They sat side-by-side in the air-conditioned warehouse and talked about women.
“Come back after lunch, by then I’ll have the stuff loaded.”
“You can’t load more than two pallets of large cartons?”
“We can do better than that. First, we’ll load two side by side, then we’ll squeeze a third in behind. A tight fit, but we can force them.”
“The payment ought to be made the next day. The rate outside is changing day by day.”
“Fine. No need to pay me this time, since you took me out Saturday night.”
“That was just a good time among friends. You can return the favor next time.”
A black guy driving a forklift grinned at them as he passed by.
“I told him about you. He was cracking up.”
“Where’s Stapley?”
“He’s over at another warehouse.”
“Let’s take him out, too, next time we have a little fun.”
“Sure. He’ll kill you he’s so funny. And he’s a very bright guy.”
By the time Yong Kyu came out of the cafeteria where he had eaten fish, potatoes, and spinach with the other supply troops, the goods were all loaded. Three pallets of salad oil: two hundred forty cans in sixty boxes. The Vietnamese love fried food, and before long a lot of households would be frying shrimp, bananas, corn, and whatever else with that oil. All Leon had to do was leave a space blank for that truckload and move on to the next one on his list of requisitions to be checked. As they left, Leon made an OK signal with his thumb and index finger.
Falling in line behind other trucks that had finished loading their cargoes, they made their way without incident back to the Y-junction. When they broke away from the convoy and headed downtown, the Vietnamese QC guards at the checkpoint gestured for them to stop. Slowly the truck rumbled to a stop in front of the guards. Pretending to be annoyed by the delay, Yong Kyu casually held out the special vehicle pass issued by General Liam, the Second Army commander. The guard took a step backward, saluted, and quickly signaled for them to pass through.
“He looked shocked.”
The driver sped down the road in high spirits. They drove straight to the ocean, passed the oil reservoir towers with giant “Gulf” and “Shell” labels on them, and entered the rear gate at the pier. The docks were hectic with the loading of all kinds of civilian cargo arriving in Da Nang for shipment from all around Vietnam. Once more they showed their special pass to the Vietnamese police and were guided in the right direction to go for unloading. As they parked the truck, Toi and another man emerged from a dilapidated wooden shack that served as an office. Toi called up to the cab of the truck, “Container 19 and conex box 5 over there are for our use only. Pull the truck to number 5.”
The truck backed up and a forklift came around and quickly moved the three pallets one at a time into the conex box. Toi locked the iron door, pulled the key out and handed it over to Yong Kyu.
“All done.”
Yong Kyu sent the truck back to the rec center and left with Toi in his Jeep.
“It’s been agreed that we’ll pay a monthly rental fee for the storage. So, when the pass expires, we’ll pay for both together.”
“Major Pham, he’s airtight.”
“You see, I’ve discovered that all the Da Nang docks are in his hands. That huge pile over there, you know what that is?”
Yong Kyu saw innumerable sacks stacked up and covered with tent canvas. The pile was as big as a two or three story building. A series of similar heaps were occupying half the space across the road from the piers.
“What is it? Flour?”
“No. Cement and fertilizer. They’re coming in in unlimited quantities. Ever heard of the phoenix hamlet project?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Three hundred new villages are being constructed. Flour and rice will be arriving, too. Nails, slate, iron bar, glass, paper, you name it. Cattle and feed grain, I can’t even remember all of it.”
“When they get those things, will the war end?”
“Not at all. It’s as if you’ve beaten someone to a pulp and call on the cripple with a bouquet of flowers to express your sympathy.”
“We have an old folktale like that. A man was rewarded for mending the leg of a broken sparrow. So another man found a sparrow and broke its leg just so he could mend it, expecting to be rewarded in the same way.”
“Was he rewarded?”
“All sorts of demons popped out, and he struggled to escape, drowning in shit and filth. Now we’ve got to go keep our rendezvous with the merchant.”
“Right, to the Bamboo.”
“Next time we’d better change the meeting place. The Bamboo is far from ideal.”
“We should rent an office or a shop.”
“Right. Talk with him about it. After all, we have to be there in Le Loi market.”
From the pier they turned off the beach road and walked the whole way, passing through a street packed with stores. They reached the end of Le Loi market, only one alley away from the old market district. Amidst the shouting of the people and the great variety of merchandise on sale, the smell of death seemed to have completely vanished from the city.
19
General Westmoreland decided that the only way to suppress the communist guerrillas was to expel all communists from the phoenix hamlets and establish free-fire zones everywhere else. Warnings had been coming from the operations headquarters. With the combat situation getting hotter, circumstances were pressing the peasants to discard the lukewarm attitude of neutrality they had thus far maintained and to make a decision.
They too were finding it increasingly obvious that to survive in these circumstances they were going to have to choose one side or the other. In the past, the farmers had three options to make a living: in accordance with their natural instincts they could stay put on the land where their ancestors were buried; they could move to zones under secure government control; or they could join the National Liberation Front. From now on, however, those who tried to stay on their land would encounter increasing peril.
The Viet Cong did not even know how to dress wounds properly, but those who moved into the zones of government control would receive food, shelter, and personal safety as well as jobs, along with the hope of returning home after a successful conclusion of the war. The alternative was to join the NLF. But the Front made hollow promises. They could not hold on to the territory they occupied for very long. B-52 strikes would get worse, the Viet Cong would raise the taxes, their young sons would be drafted at gunpoint, and labor would be demanded for transporting supplies. In present circumstances, the tide of battle on the ground was turning gradually in favor of the e
nemy.
In the conference room of the provincial government office, a monthly meeting of the US–Vietnam Joint Committee was underway. The joint committee was an organization first set up in conjunction with the strategic hamlets initiative in the early 1960s, and it was now being restructured and expanded to administer the phoenix hamlets project. For this resettlement plan the Vietnamese government had inaugurated a “Developmental Revolution Committee,” and the chairman of this committee was none other than General Liam, the military governor of Quang Nam Province.
Present in the room were Major Pham Quyen, acting on behalf of the chairman, AID representatives assigned to Da Nang, an American military advisor for Quang Nam Province, the mayor of Hoi An (also vice-chairman of the Developmental Revolution Committee), the commander of the ARVN Second Division stationed at Da Nang, the chiefs of the agriculture and education sections of the provincial administration, and, up from Saigon as advisors, a Filipino specialist in community development and a young man from the International Support Corps.
The air conditioner was buzzing, but it did not impede their discussions. The thick curtains were drawn on the windows of the conference room that normally looked down on the streets. From inside it was hard to imagine where in the world they might be. The soundproofing was so good that no street noise at all penetrated the conference room. Standing at the front of the room was a huge map of East Asia along with a large chart written in both Vietnamese and English. Nearly a hundred tasks were listed on the chart, in each case with specifications showing the details of the task for each site—such-and-such village in such-and-such province—with budgets and monthly timetables for distribution of supplies. Just now the US military advisor was emphasizing once more the strategic importance of the phoenix hamlet project, reiterating the announcements by the headquarters of the US forces in Saigon. However, the mayor of Hoi An was not convinced and spoke bluntly.
“As for the search-and-destroy operations commenced by General Westmoreland, our commanders on the front have presented some criticisms. In fact, ever since the Tet Offensive, our general staff have also taken the view that, due to the general problems of such operations, it is a very doubtful way to achieve a decisive victory. We would like to believe that the new operational strategy of newly appointed General Abrams will bear our reservations in mind. I’ve long thought that the headquarters policy on designation of free-fire zones was a very dangerous approach. Could it be that headquarters has given up hope of winning the loyalty of the Vietnamese peasantry?
The Shadow of Arms Page 28
