The Shadow of Arms

by Hwang Sok-Yong

“No, sir. I mean we’ll get air support.”

  The idea of establishing free-fire zones by strictly distinguishing the phoenix hamlets from the enemy’s liberated areas was initially developed in connection with General Westmoreland’s orders for search-and-destroy operations. Now the locals had to stake their lives on a choice between the government and the NLF. It was no longer possible for Vietnamese in operations zones to adopt a neutral position. It was a key part of the Americans’ strategy.

  Once operations began, helicopters brought Vietnamese officers in to wage psychological warfare over liberated areas by broadcasting and dropping leaflets to disseminate the message: “This is an area of combat operations; all civilians must evacuate this area and move to new hamlets which have been prepared where everyone will be able to settle down peacefully and safely; land, food, and seeds will be provided free. Evacuation must be completed by such-and-such day, following which this area will be bombed and those captured thereafter shall be treated as suspected enemy forces.”

  Then the area would be demolished by saturation bombing and an infantry assault would follow. But most residents knew only too well that if they accepted the offer of resettlement they would receive barely enough rice to survive and become mere tenants working the lands grabbed by government officials or military officers. Some of them couldn’t leave their home villages because they had family members fighting with the local guerrillas. Either they ran away to safer regions, or remained in their villages, vulnerable to brutal murder. The Americans spoke of their zones of occupation as having a leopard-spot pattern: outside of the secure spots, nearly everything was a free-fire zone.

  “Well, if we can get a documented order from Corps, I’ll put in a request for air support right now to the US commander at Division Headquarters,” said General Van Toan.

  Pham Quyen agreed. “I’ll have the document dispatched tomorrow, sir. Better postpone the bombing until then. We can take proper steps and broadcast the warning today.”

  “That’s how we’ll conduct it then. Bien Daio is the furthest point into the jungle. From there we’ll have to cut a road with a bulldozer as we advance. When we reach the ravines we’ll turn around on the southern slope of Hill 3383. We can cut the cinnamon from both hills and collect it at the ravines for transport to Bien Daio.”

  Pham Quyen looked around quickly. He seemed flustered. Aside from the major acting as magistrate and the lieutenant colonel, there were two other men in the room, the battalion commander and the sergeant-bodyguard. Major Pham spoke obliquely so that the general could pick up his hint.

  “A venture designed to strengthen the fiscal position of Quang Nam Province by utilizing resources in the operations area is a part of the refugee resettlement enterprise. And it is an order from His Excellency the Governor himself that the manual work involved be given to the local residents so that they can reap some benefits.”

  “I understand. Shall we go?” General Van Toan straightened his metal helmet and rose. “Keep up the good work, officers.”

  Van Toan, Pham Quyen, and the magistrate left the office and went downstairs.

  “Isn’t there a place with a better view?” the general asked.

  The magistrate led them to a bunker overlooking the river. A pair of sentinels, who had been idly lounging inside, jumped up.

  “Stand guard outside,” the magistrate barked at the two soldiers. He then pointed to the dense jungle down the bank of the river. “That’s the spot, sir.”

  “And the Lien Hiep bridge?”

  “Over there to the right, we can climb up to the west alongside the river.”

  Tanks and bulldozers could be seen crawling along the edges of rice paddies down the river. The bombing continued in the background. White smoke was drifting over the distant jungle. Inside the bunker, a wooden field cot and ammo crates had been arranged to provide seating. Pham Quyen pointed to the wooden cot and offered the seat to the general. “Sir, have a seat, please. And you, too, Major.”

  When they were sitting, Pham Quyen spoke. “What the hell were you were thinking? Our operation plan is publicly described as a pacification operation for the resettlement projects in An Diem and An Hoa. If at the start you reveal the intention to harvest cinnamon, there’ll be talk.”

  “Do you think so? Utilizing forest resources will also serve war aims, won’t it?” the general asked tentatively.

  “In all events, the first and foremost objective is to seize and completely secure that entire section of the jungle. Once that is achieved, the cinnamon collection will be seen as a financial fringe benefit incidental to the operation. The benefit, of course, is to go to the welfare projects for the local residents.”

  Pham Quyen paused and then went on. “One more thing I’d like to say. His Excellency the Governor is the administrator for this province and also holds the military command charged with looking after the life and livelihood of all Vietnamese in this region. He’s my superior and the immediate superior of the division commander. It would be unwise to make insulting insinuations or jeering remarks about His Excellency in the presence of subordinates.”

  At such an uncompromising rebuke from Pham Quyen, the division commander faltered as he tried to justify himself. “I was only . . . how should I put it? I was only joking because General Liam and I are close friends from way back.”

  Once he had put the general on the defensive, Pham Quyen reprimanded him even more severely. “Even though this area is the responsibility of the Second Division, the present operation could have been conducted by mobilizing the defense division in Da Nang or the Rangers in Hue. I personally requested the corps commander to involve your unit.”

  “I know.”

  “Apart from the military action necessary for defending positions and securing the jungles of Tung Duk and Bien Daio, the military will not be allowed to participate in the task.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s the civilians who will be collecting the cinnamon. The Ha Thanh villagers will handle the Tung Duk region and those from An Hoa will take care of Bien Daio.”

  “You mean, the region will be divided?”

  “Yes, but only operationally. In Ha Thanh, the magistrate and I will be in charge of the operation. You, General, should delegate the same responsibility to your military magistrate in An Hoa, sir. All the harvested cinnamon will then be collected in Ha Thanh and An Hoa, and from there will be transported to Da Nang.”

  “So where do we stand?”

  “Don’t be concerned, sir. The quantity is enormous, and back in Da Nang there are more than a few traders from India and Singapore.”

  Instead of collecting and selling the goods through an operation centralized in the provincial office, Pham Quyen effectively had accomplished a division of the operations. As long as Nguyen Cuong was on his side, his ability to deal in cinnamon was huge. Cuong came from a merchant family that for generations had been collecting and trading cinnamon and he himself was raised as a specialist in the harvest and marketing operations. If he and Cuong could manage to keep a whole section of the jungle to themselves, their share would be far greater. Also, Van Toan had little choice but to allow a distinct share for General Liam, since the only place to send the cinnamon for sale was Da Nang. Thus, Pham Quyen not only had considerable leverage over the division commander, he also had the power to expand his autonomy.

  “The harvesting operations are scheduled to begin ten days from now. In the meantime, gather up the workforce.”

  “What will we do about wages?”

  “Put in a requisition to the provincial office. There’s relief grain available for the phoenix hamlets project. Wages will be paid in rice.”

  The three of them emerged from the bunker.

  “I’ll go on to An Hoa, leaving the battalion commander here,” General Van Toan said.

  “Have a good trip,” said Pham Quyen, saluting. �
�I’ll come to An Hoa often. It’s only ten minutes away by helicopter.”

  “When the cinnamon merchant comes in, be sure to bring him with you.”

  “As soon as you get back, please find out through the major how many workers he can round up. Then, as soon as you send a grain requisition to the office, we’ll ship it out here immediately.”

  Pham Quyen and the magistrate went back into the administration building. Major Pham spoke to the officers in the room. “The Second Division commander is leaving for An Hoa. Only the officer who’ll command the battalion is to stay.”

  Except for one major, the others all hurried outside. Major Pham said to the battalion commander, “From now on this place will be the command post for the pacification of the Tung Duk guerrillas in the operations area. The magistrate here will be in charge of public relations. Think of me as a reconnaissance officer from Corps.”

  They shook hands. Major Pham asked the magistrate, “How many able-bodied men do you think you can round up in An Diem and Ha Thanh?”

  “Hard to say for sure without a head count, but I think we can drum up about a thousand.”

  “Five hundred will be plenty. Starting today, mobilize the military administration and make an announcement about the work, saying it’ll be paid labor.”

  The magistrate hesitated before speaking. “That should be easy enough, but . . . our country is also facing serious financial difficulties. Won’t there be some sort of benefit for the country from this pacification project?”

  “Of course there will be,” Pham Quyen said, and, lowering his voice, added, “The district administration will be able to utilize one-tenth of the mobilized workers for its own purposes. The cinnamon collected by them will be entirely at your discretion.”

  The magistrate understood. The battalion commander called in a signal officer, a liaison man, and a sergeant, and busied himself setting up the command post.

  “The helicopter that is going to do the warning broadcasts has taken off, sir,” said the signalman to the battalion commander.

  Major Pham was dozing, sitting on a metal folding chair with his legs propped up on the desk. The magistrate’s office, now converted into a command post for sending orders to and receiving reports from all the companies in the field, was in disarray. There was constant noise from the wireless sets and confusion of signals officers popping in and out. The magistrate had gone out with his assistant to conduct a tour of the hamlets in An Diem and Ha Thanh in order to mobilize the local residents.

  “Special Forces has secured the stronghold in Bien Jiang, sir,” said a communications officer.

  The battalion commander was about to leave when he went over to Major Pham and very cautiously woke him up.

  “Will you accompany me?”

  “Yeah, uh . . . what did you say?” asked Major Pham, reflexively pulling his legs down from the desk.

  “I’m headed out to the operations area. Won’t you come along?”

  “Operations area? Where do you mean?” mumbled Pham Quyen, still not completely awake.

  “I’m going all the way out to Lien Hiep bridge. That’s where we’ve set up the defense cordon for our reconnaissance units.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Pham Quyen rubbed his face a few times with both hands and without further hesitation got to his feet. Lien Hiep bridge was situated at the mouth of the jungle ravines below Hill 3383. At the midpoint between the bridge and the village of Lien Hiep, the river branched into three swift-flowing tributaries that ran through deep gorges to Bien Jiang and onward turned into the Quoi River. Pham Quyen realized how important that bridge was and believed that the success of the entire operation depended on their ability to secure and hold it.

  There were two open-topped Jeeps parked in front of the district administration building. The major was waiting for Pham Quyen in one. In the rear of that Jeep a guard was sitting with his back turned, holding the M60 machine gun.

  “Use the other Jeep, please.”

  In the second Jeep, there were two guards with submachine guns sitting on iron platforms over the rear wheels, facing left and right. The battalion commander took the seat beside the driver in the lead Jeep and Pham Quyen got on the second Jeep. They pulled out through the concrete breastworks, passed through the center of Ha Thanh, and headed down the riverside past a series of narrow rice fields.

  Before long they reached the junction leading to An Diem. There was a traffic control box with sandbags piled up around it, manned by some soldiers from the reserves. Nearby, an armored personnel carrier covered with camouflage netting was parked under a palm tree. A shirtless soldier sitting on top of it was so surprised by the sight of officers that he saluted with a cigarette still between his fingers. The soldiers standing around the sandbagged sentry box, also shirtless and helmetless in the heat, also gave salutes. The lead Jeep came to a stop in front of the traffic control box, and Pham Quyen’s vehicle pulled to a stop behind.

  The battalion commander, still in the Jeep, asked sharply, “Which company is this? Where’s your commander?”

  The men looked at each other tentatively. The battalion commander pointed to the nearest half-naked soldier.

  “You . . . come over here. Who’s your commander?”

  The soldier’s face, smudged with sweat and dust, contorted into an awful scowl. He stammered, “Sir, I don’t know who my commander is.

  The battalion commander was about to howl at the soldier when another middle-aged soldier, naked to the waist, craned his neck out from inside the emplacement.

  “Why do you ask, sir?”

  “And you, who are you?”

  “Master Sergeant Tam.”

  “Are you in charge here?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re reserve defense militia of Ha Thanh District. We’re out here to guard the road from An Diem. Who are you, officer?”

  The battalion commander smirked as if he found the situation too absurd to respond, then turned back to Pham Quyen and broke into laughter. He seemed relieved to have confirmed they were not soldiers from his own units. “I am the battalion commander leading the pacification operations in the Ha Thanh area.”

  “I’ll make no mistake about you in the future, sir.”

  The tone of the middle-aged militiaman showed no trace of surprise. The major lost his temper.

  “Look, what the hell is going on here, anyway? What kind of outfit is that? We’re in the middle of an operation but you’ve lost your shirt and helmet? There are no sentries paying attention and the commander is taking a nap, eh?”

  The master sergeant turned around and examined the general appearance of his men. “Don’t worry, sir. They don’t look like much, but if a situation develops they’ll all fight well. Our magistrate was through here a while ago on the way to An Diem, and he didn’t say anything about the uniforms. If you really don’t like us, sir, we can withdraw and you can have Second Division forces come instead and defend this place.”

  Pham Quyen pulled out his .45 from his belt and took the safety off. With a click, a bullet from the clip settled into the chamber. The trigger was at the ready. Pham Quyen got out and quietly approached the middle-aged soldier. Then he quickly put the muzzle of the pistol against the man’s forehead

  “On your knees.”

  The atmosphere grew tense. Without removing his eyes from the gun, the soldier kneeled down. Pham Quyen spoke to the other militiaman. “Bring this guy’s shirt.”

  The other man, who until then had been moving very sluggishly, rushed inside the emplacement and brought out the older man’s crumpled uniform top with its master sergeant chevron insignia. Pham Quyen fired three shots into the shirt.

  “Pick it up,” Pham Quyen ordered the sergeant.

  The man trembled as he picked up his shirt. Sunlight slipped through the three holes in it.

  “Do you know what
that is?”

  Not knowing how to respond, the master sergeant remained silently kneeling on the ground with his head up. This time Pham Quyen stuck the muzzle of the .45 against his cheek.

  “What is it? Answer me.”

  “Bull—bullet holes, sir.”

  “This is an operations zone. I can execute you for dereliction of duty and insubordination here and now. Shall I make another hole through your skull?”

  “Spare me, please sir.”

  Pham Quyen fired another round past his ear into the ground. The master sergeant shook and grabbed his head with both hands. Pham Quyen lowered the gun and looked around at the other militiamen and then at the master sergeant, saying, “You may be in the reserves, but you are still soldiers with a duty to keep this area secure. You must conduct this operation with full responsibility. A great number of militia units have been attacked because you guys don’t take your duty seriously and do stupid things like abandon your guard posts and conduct pointless ambushes. I warn you. Opportunists that seek to evade combat are acting in the interests of the enemy. Punishment will not end with the individual in question. Sergeant, do you have a family living in town?”

  “Yes, sir.” The master sergeant was completely broken.

  “Good,” said Pham Quyen. “If you lose this position or if the enemy infiltrates it, then you’ll be considered Viet Cong agents and you and your entire family will be shot. This is something I want you other soldiers also to bear in mind. Get into your uniforms and stay properly armed like real soldiers. Keep to your posts and be prepared to fight. Sergeant, carry on.”

  Pham Quyen slowly got back into his Jeep. The militiamen started moving about energetically and looked more like soldiers. The battalion commander glanced quickly at Pham Quyen and then drove off in front. The road stretched ahead with jungle on the right and rice paddies on the left sloping down to the riverbank. The peaks of the highlands, looking like a camel’s humps, were visible up ahead. The mountains were densely covered with trees from the bottom all the way to the top.

  The Jeeps hurried along to avoid snipers, raising red dust behind them. Every now and then the guards fired a few shots into the jungle. The thatched palm roofs and white plaster walls of the Tung Duk hamlets came into sight. Company soldiers who had already set up communications and fortified trenches waved to them. The battalion commander seemed to feel they had reached a secure position and ordered the driver to stop. He got out and slowly walked back to the second Jeep, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He put one in his mouth and offered the pack to Pham Quyen, who raised his hand in a declining gesture. After watching the men on guard duty across the river for a while, he turned to Pham Quyen and said, “This doesn’t feel right to me.”