The Shadow of Arms

by Hwang Sok-Yong

  Cole: The Vietnamese sergeant resumed his questioning, but the boy only kept moaning “No” or “I don’t know.” Lieutenant Sloat kept pacing around the room, boiling with anger, and then he called out for Sergeant McCoy. The lieutenant told McCoy not to be too rough with the boy, to do it skillfully. The lieutenant sat down beside the boy and McCoy pulled his head backward. Then they slowly poured water from the pot into the boy’s mouth and nose.

  McCoy: All I did was hold him down.

  Nguyen: He ordered me to bring the pot over from the desk and pour it. I turned my head away and did as told. Every now and then the lieutenant told me to stop and asked something in English, which I in turn asked the boy in Vietnamese.

  Cole: But that didn’t do anything.

  Interrogator: So you moved up to the next level of torture? I mean, the shock treatment, using the field telephone as a generator?

  Cole: No. Before that I asked Lieutenant Sloat to let me go back to my cell. The lieutenant tried to convince me to stay, asking what was waiting for me back in prison except hard labor. But I told him I didn’t want any part of this.

  Sloat: I wasn’t the one who had picked out his personal record card. The senior staff was responsible. They said I could promise him that if he managed to get the suspect to reveal information with combat value, they’d restore his officer’s rank and send him back to his unit. He was a very competent interpreter.

  Interrogator: Who was the next person to commit an atrocity and what did he do?

  Brown: I saw it all with my own eyes. Sergeant McCoy made me bring some water. I brought a full basin over and then McCoy taped an electric cord on the back of that poor boy’s heel.

  Interrogator: Lieutenant Sloat, did you order him to do it?

  Sloat: No, sir. I left for a short time to make a report to my superior. Even as I was out, a fierce enemy attack was underway. For purposes of minimizing casualties on our side, we couldn’t afford to lose a single second in locating the guerrilla hideouts.

  Interrogator: Sergeant Nguyen, the cruelty continued even after the lieutenant returned, didn’t it?

  Nguyen: If he lowered his hand I kept it running, and when he raised his hand I stopped.

  Interrogator: So, Nguyen had the power running and the lieutenant sent the signals. What were you doing, Sergeant McCoy?

  McCoy: I wrote down the suspect’s statements as they were interpreted.

  Brown: Before that, McCoy had put the boy’s feet, taped with the electric cord, into the basin of water, and then he tied both the boy’s legs to the chair. When the power was turned on, the boy let out a faint moan and his whole body shook. The boy couldn’t endure that for long, and he went limp.

  Cole: After that the boy came to and fainted three more times. Still he only talked of his sister’s house. I said we should stop because we wouldn’t get anything more out of the boy. Sloat said that somewhere the Viet Cong were at that very moment getting ready to attack, and asked me to interpret the boy’s shrieks. I did. I even included when he said things like “dear Buddha” or “Momma” or “bastard” or “help me” and so on. It felt like I was the one being tortured. Over and over I kept saying the boy seemed to be telling the truth, it really was possible he meant to sell the grenades on the black market and that he meant to give the money he made to his sister.

  Brown: McCoy said mockingly that yeah sure, that was possible. But even if he had a sister, McCoy said, she had to be a whore. He glared at us and kept saying that the boy had been caught red-handed carrying enemy supplies. That was when Marvin said that if the boy wasn’t a guerrilla, he sure as hell would become one when he got back home to his village and next time he’d be throwing grenades at us. McCoy got so mad he grabbed Marvin by the throat and pushed him against the wall.

  McCoy: The operations guidelines issued by headquarters clearly state that any Vietnamese, regardless of age or gender, we run upon at a line of contact must be assumed to be a guerrilla. What were we supposed to think about a boy who was lugging grenades in a zone where we were conducting a desperate search-and-destroy mission?

  Cole: I felt so suffocated I couldn’t budge even after I heard Lieutenant Sloat shout, Sergeant! He’s a prisoner now but he’s still an officer. Stop!

  Nguyen: As soon as Sergeant McCoy stopped choking the officer by the neck, he turned and struck the boy in the face again with his fist. The boy fell sideways with the chair onto the floor. The medic was on standby in the other room with his kit, so he was brought back in and gave the boy another shot on the lieutenant’s order. There was a gash under the boy’s left eye. His ribs started to move, and a minute later the boy was breathing again.

  Interrogator: So up to then it was the second degree, right? When did you start with the third degree?

  Nguyen: Dinner was brought in. It began after that.

  Sloat: As I mentioned before, a secret mission of this kind requires the highest degree of skill and presence of mind on our part. Sergeant McCoy bungled things. As an officer I felt responsible and was ready to take the consequences.

  Interrogator: What do you mean? Wasn’t that true from the start?

  Sloat: At the beginning I planned to take care of it skillfully, but after dinner I gave up.

  Interrogator: You’re still not making yourself clear.

  Sloat: For instance, there were already too many incriminating signs on the suspect.

  Interrogator: I see. You mean you decided he would not be sent back to the prisoner of war camp?

  Sloat: Yes. In the end . . .

  Brown: After supper, Lieutenant Sloat was drinking coffee. We had eaten stew and peas. The sauce reminded me of thick blood, so I couldn’t swallow even a spoonful. Lieutenant Sloat sat there quietly for a while, then he took out a knife and handed it to Sergeant McCoy.

  Interrogator: Was it a normal knife? I mean, not a machete or a sword, but a fruit knife or a workshop knife?

  Cole: It was one of those knives used by the Special Forces, with a curved tip in Arabian style and serrated on the reverse side of the blade.

  Interrogator: Who was the first to use the blade and for what purpose?

  Cole: Sergeant McCoy took the knife and rubbed it across his palm a few times. And then he rubbed it over the boy’s back . . .

  Interrogator: He couldn’t stab with that knife, could he?

  Brown: He sliced through the skin, though. The boy’s writhing and moaning was too much for me and I squatted down in the corner of the Quonset and threw up. Only a few peas came up and Cole started pounding on my back to help me out. McCoy kept at it for a while, and then he suddenly tossed the knife on the table. Then he told Marvin to help him since he was a soldier, too. Both Lieutenant Sloat and Marvin were silent. McCoy sneered and said officers were only imitation gentlemen and didn’t care a lick about their comrades’ dying. That was when Sloat picked up the knife and stabbed the boy in the thigh.

  Sloat: In fact I suffered, too. And I was losing patience because we’d already wasted too much time. I could no longer evade the inevitable. From then on, I did everything alone. Of course, there were some results, but . . .

  Interrogator: Private Marvin Cole, you saw everything in detail to the end, is that right?

  Cole: Yes, because I had to interpret for McCoy who was recording every single scream of agony coming from the boy.

  Interrogator: Could you be more specific?

  Cole: Sir, I was a brave fighter. I’ve seen dead bodies of our troops and of the enemy torn to bits by bombs or riddled by machine guns, and I’ve shot my share. But how can I describe this? It was like butchering a live calf.

  Interrogator: Well, after that, did the torture continue?

  Nguyen: Lieutenant Sloat told us to untie the boy and lay him down on the desk. He said we would have to start again in the morning. Because of the wounds on his back, when the boy was laid down he
moaned and gasped for breath. Sergeant McCoy turned the lamp dimmer down. It seemed they were going to get a little sleep sitting in the chairs. That man must have been sick because the two prisoners were sent out for a while.

  Cole: Private Howard wanted a breath of cool air, so I took him outside. The searchlight was constantly shining around us. We sat on the sand and smoked a cigarette. Suddenly Howard put his head down on his knees and burst out crying. I thought it’d be better to leave him alone. Then he turned around and called me a son of a bitch. Since I knew Vietnamese I could have stopped it if I wanted to, he said. It never had occurred to me. I was indeed Sloat’s son of a bitch.

  Interrogator: Private Howard Brown, how did you think knowledge of the Vietnamese language could have put an end to the torture?

  Brown: I thought Marvin could talk with the Vietnamese sergeant. He was sick and tired of it all, too.

  Nguyen: I hate the communists. But I only shoot guns. The lieutenant and the sergeant did not consider Vietnamese to be human beings. The two prisoners returned. The one who knew Vietnamese asked me in a whisper if the boy had still said nothing about the guerrillas. I told him the boy seemed to be chanting some kind of prayers. Then I looked over at the lieutenant and the sergeant and found them both fast asleep. The stories the little boy had told to me while I was the only one awake beside him, well, I told all of those to Cole. That both of his parents died a year ago, killed by strafing from US helicopters. His parents had been working in the fields when a helicopter suddenly swooped down. The boy said he was there and had seen everything, seen his parents machine gunned down and dying. Cole suggested, in Vietnamese, that he and I save the boy. He said we were the only ones who knew what he was saying, and we should gain some time for him and prevent further knifing. I agreed with him.

  Cole: At that moment Lieutenant Sloat abruptly awoke from sleep. He may have sensed something suspicious from our whispering in Vietnamese. He asked Sergeant Nguyen why the interrogation had stopped.

  Nguyen: I responded that the suspect no longer seemed to feel any pain. But when the boy made some moaning sounds, the lieutenant asked me to hurry and interpret. I said it meant, “dear Buddha, I want to rest.” The lieutenant told me not to lie, and said he’d use the knife again unless I told the truth. That was when the guard brought breakfast in.

  Brown: It was strong coffee and bacon. They ate breakfast, sitting their cups and plates on the desk right beside the bloodied boy.

  Cole: After the meal was over, Lieutenant Sloat took me outside and, putting his hand on my shoulder, said in a soothing tone: once you get the necessary information you can have your rank reinstated and head back to your duty. Who knows, he said, your major might even arrange for an honorable discharge. He said that Nguyen had been playing games from the start. The boy must have revealed something important. I said he was mistaken and that the boy had been saying the same thing over and over. Sloat suddenly turned around and opened the Quonset door, summoning the guard. Drag that Vietnamese bastard out of here, he ordered. Then, half-hysterical, he said Nguyen should be locked up until someone came from his unit to collect him. Nguyen bowed to Howard and me and then left with the guard. Sloat said to McCoy, let’s you and I do it together. He looked completely insane. As soon as he picked up the knife, he started yelling at the boy in English to tell him where the guerrillas were, and then he stabbed the boy in the knee.

  Brown: I’ll never forget his eyes and face at that moment as long as I live. The boy suddenly opened his eyes and glared at the lieutenant, biting his terribly swollen lips and grinding his teeth with his whole face shaking. Lieutenant Sloat dropped the knife and took a step back. I screamed that I was getting out, I’m going back to my cell. I kicked the Quonset door open and staggered out. From behind, the lieutenant shouted for me to stop, but I kept on walking. The guard ran after me and ordered me to stop, but I didn’t. I heard a gun fire. Sand splashed up at my feet. Two more shots were fired. I fell on the spot with my face hitting the sand.

  Interrogator: After that, did you receive medical treatment in the hospital?

  Brown: Yes, it was a through shot.

  Cole: Once Howard had been carried away, Lieutenant Sloat looked down at the boy for a while and then in a unnerved voice shouted, You better not die, you little bastard! He slapped the boy’s face. Then he called the medic. The lieutenant told McCoy to call a helicopter and take the boy to the hospital. He murmured, We’ve got to keep him alive at all costs and get the information out of him. We can start over from the beginning. Hearing those words, I made up my mind.

  Interrogator: About what?

  Cole: I decided it was time to give the boy his freedom to die. I spoke to Sloat, telling him I’d overheard the boy talking to Sergeant Nguyen. I said the boy had confessed that he was taking the stuff to his uncle in the swamp near Dien Banh. Sloat took Sergeant McCoy and me and hurried us to the staff headquarters. A helicopter assault force was already lifting off, having been alerted by wireless. There in the air-conditioned office of the headquarters, I watched as an outsider and secretly laughed at their hectic rushing about. For the helicopters would find nothing at that place. I just wanted to give the boy some time to die in peace even if it meant lying. As I sat in the chair drinking ice water, the medic came in and reported that the boy was dead. Lieutenant Sloat kept making phone calls, and I heard him give an order to pick out any bastard they wanted from among the prisoners and bury the boy. McCoy went out.

  Interrogator: Private Taylor, I believe the time has come for you to testify.

  Taylor: That sergeant brought a guard with him to our work site and asked who among us knew Marvin Cole. I’d been worrying about Marvin and Howard because they had not returned since lunchtime the day before. The three of us had become good pals while living together the past year in that prison. I said I was their close friend and asked whether something had happened to them. McCoy said they were enjoying a poker game in an air-conditioned room. I felt a bit uneasy, but not knowing what was going on, I followed him over to the Quonset hut. Inside was so dark that at first I couldn’t see anything. The sergeant who was behind me threw a vinyl bag to me and told me to put the bastard on the desk inside of it. It was a heavy, waterproof body bag used for soldiers killed in action. I opened the zipper and started to load the corpse in legs first.

  Interrogator: Just describe the location and condition of the wounds, please.

  Taylor: Both knees were deeply punctured and the thighs were flapping, sliced in a half-moon shape. His face was swollen and the desk was soaked with blood from cuts on his back. His eyes were open. Because of the pitiful expression of the dead little boy, his slanted eyes wide open under that pale forehead, I somehow felt he was on our side. I only learned later that he was a suspected Viet Cong. I decided to shut his eyes, and the paper-thin eyelids slid closed under my palm. Then I carried the vinyl body bag out to a place behind the garbage incinerator.

  Interrogator: Did you go with the sergeant?

  Taylor: Yes, he led the way. He walked in front with a shovel and I followed, dragging the vinyl bag by one end. I guess I was pulling the ankles, and the head and torso were dragging in the sand.

  Interrogator: Did you bury the corpse?

  Taylor: The sergeant threw the shovel down at my feet. I dug a hole as deep as my waist . . . and then he gave me a hand. We each held one end of the bag and tossed it down into the hole.

  Interrogator: Can you remember the place?

  Taylor: Well, I’m not so sure since it was sandy in all directions.

  Interrogator: Lieutenant Sloat and Sergeant McCoy, is there anything else you want to state for the record?

  McCoy: General Westmoreland’s search-and-destroy operations will judge a mishap of this kind as something inevitable under the exceptional circumstances of battle in Vietnam. As a professional soldier, I’ve done my duty faithfully.

  Interrogator: How a
bout you Lieutenant Sloat?

  Sloat: Nothing, sir.

  Interrogator: Just a while ago, Private Marvin Cole testified that he had lied about the confession. So did you not end up wasting combat resources?

  Sloat: No, sir. We annihilated an entire company of the enemy in the swamp near Dien Banh. The information proved to be most valuable.

  Footnote:

  11 Military Intelligence Division

  31

  The pleasant sound of balls hitting rackets came from the tennis courts. The maid brought in some coffee and bread. Pham Quyen set the English newspaper down, and buttering a piece of baguette, said, “Those Americans, playing tennis! What idiots!”

  Hae Jong misunderstood what he meant. “Do you find it noisy? I kind of like the sound.”

  From the direction of the tree line, laughter was audible. High-ranking American officers played tennis religiously every morning. Before, Pham Quyen and Hae Jong had joined in the games from time to time. The Americans had welcomed Hae Jong with open arms but cold-shouldered the Vietnamese officer. It was one of those old customs observed by white people toward the natives of their colonies. Strictly speaking, the US military’s rule barring the locals from entering the bars and restaurants was just another remnant of the old white colonialist customs. There was no real difference between the French in Indochina and the British in India.

  “This is my country. A few miles from here people are dying, dropping like flies, but here . . . a tennis match every morning. It isn’t right.”

  “Please, stop talking about death. We’re eating breakfast.”

  Hae Jong took a sip of her coffee. She sensed Pham Quyen’s sour mood and said to him, “They’re like that wherever they go. You should get some exercise, too.”