The Shadow of Arms

by Hwang Sok-Yong

  Toi arrived at his home, located off Le Loi Boulevard near the new market, around nine o’clock. He’d had a few drinks at the Bamboo Club and was in an exuberant mood. The lights were all out except in the living room. There was no answer when he rang the doorbell. Had everyone gone to sleep? Grumbling, he gave a light kick to the wooden gate on the side of the house. It swung open without a sound. Still grumbling, he unlatched the door and went into the house. The moment he entered, he found the muzzle of a gun pressed right against his forehead.

  “So, in the habit of coming home drunk? Nice leisurely life you have here.”

  Meeting these jeers, Toi quickly peered about. A man was sitting in the chair right in front of him, another stood in the doorway to the interior, and the third was holding the gun on him. All three were armed.

  “Who are you people?”

  “Shut up! Get down on your knees!”

  The man next to Toi forced him to kneel in front of the seated figure.

  “My family . . .” Toi stammered.

  “Don’t worry. They’re all in the back room. Who do you suppose we are?”

  “NLF.”

  “Not bad. And what do you do for a living? You’re a traitor. We’re here to hold a summary court-martial. First, after finishing your military duty as a conscript, you volunteered to work for enemy intelligence headquarters. Worse, that enemy is a foreign power. Second, ignoring the struggle of all the people of Vietnam today, you’ve been spying on and disrupting the historical mission of the NLF. Finally, you used the fruits of your treachery to try to extort money from a patriot and you threatened his life. Therefore, in the name of the People of Vietnam, the Quang Nam District Committee of the National Liberation Front hereby sentences you to death.”

  Having spoken thus, the man turned and looked in turn at the two others. Both repeated the word “death,” as if to underscore it. Toi had no time even to attempt any excuses. The man in front of him spoke again.

  “We shall make no compromises with a shameless scoundrel like you. Because ours is the righteous path.”

  The man standing beside Toi swung his arm, and Toi’s mouth fell all the way open. Then he looked down at his own belly and fell sideways. A sharpened bamboo stick was jammed deep into his stomach. They had followed the method of execution used by the guerrillas out in the villages. After searching Toi’s fallen body and retrieving the note, they quickly fled from the house. Across the street, a van turned on its headlights and they got inside. Nguyen Thach drove away. One of the men handed him the piece of paper.

  “Tear it up,” said Thach.

  “What next, sir?”

  “I guess it’s time to go underground,” Nguyen Thach answered brightly.

  It was nine forty-five when the Korean investigation office received a call from the police. The recently arrived new chief sergeant took the call and then shouted, “I think they’re looking for you, sir.”

  “All right, I’ll take it in my office,” the captain replied.

  A few moments later the captain came back out, searching for Ahn Yong Kyu.

  “Get dressed and get your weapon. And you, Sergeant, better come with us.”

  “Sir? What about the boys . . . ?”

  “The three of us will do. Toi’s been murdered.”

  “What?!”

  “That was the police, calling from the scene.”

  Yong Kyu picked up a semi-automatic carbine with a folding aluminum stock that had belonged to the old chief sergeant. He also grabbed two clips, each holding thirty rounds.

  “Where?”

  “His house.”

  There were three Vietnamese police cars parked in front of Toi’s house. When they rushed inside, a familiar police chief saluted the captain. Toi’s wife, his children and his old mother were all huddled together crying. Yong Kyu stayed in the hall, looking down at Toi’s corpse. It was the first time he saw Toi’s face up close without those mirrored mercury sunglasses. His mouth was gaping widely as though he were howling with laughter. His blind eye stared into space. The bamboo spear had been pulled from his body and lay beside him, drenched in blood like some living thing.

  “It was guerrillas, sir. According to the wife, they broke into the house at around 2000, vaulting the fences from three sides. Then, she said, they held a summary court-martial. The crime they charged him with was helping you people. They also said the victim had tried to blackmail them.”

  After listening to the report, Yong Kyu said to the captain, “I know who killed him. Let’s go and get him.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  In a fury, Yong Kyu pointed out through the gate with his carbine and shouted, “I say we go and get those VC!”

  As Yong Kyu ran outside, the police chief asked the captain, “What’s that all about?”

  “He told me he knows where the guerrillas are who did this.”

  The chief gave orders to two of his policemen and they then hurried outside followed by four others. Yong Kyu got in the Jeep, and sat there without a word.

  “Where are we headed?” the captain asked Yong Kyu.

  “To the fish market, down by the pier.”

  The Vietnamese police followed right behind them. When they reached the customs house, Yong Kyu turned and parked the Jeep at the square before the fish market. Empty wooden crates were stacked up everywhere, but there was no sign of people in the rainy streets.

  “See that vacant lot down that alley?” Yong Kyu asked. “By that white wall? They’re two entrances, a big door out front and a side door from that vacant lot.”

  As the captain repeated Yong Kyu’s words to the Vietnamese police chief, Yong Kyu dashed ahead into the alley, calling back, “Cover me, Sergeant!”

  Yong Kyu crept up next to the door of the factory with the sergeant close behind him. The door opened a little. One at a time they ran inside. Then two policemen followed them in, jumped over some baskets of salt and crates of fish, heading for the middle of the building. Another policeman hit the lights. Two lamps hanging from the ceiling came on. Yong Kyu kicked the door on the side leading to the storeroom. The lamps were pouring light that way, but nothing could be seen except a row of nuoc mam urns. From the other side of the storeroom, a policeman opened the door and entered. The captain was looking on from behind them.

  “Nobody around?”

  “We’re too late. Toi and I knew about this place.”

  Yong Kyu cracked one of the urns with the butt of his gun. The nuoc mam poured out, revealing gun stocks inside. The police chief and his men started breaking the other pots.

  “All of them have guns inside,” said Yong Kyu as he walked outside.

  “Why hadn’t you reported this yet?” asked the captain.

  “We were conducting a secret investigation, sir. Call in some reinforcement, please.”

  “Call the Americans?”

  “Never mind. I’ll speak to him.” Yong Kyu went over to talk to the police chief who was enthusiastically smashing a row of urns.

  “There’s another houseful of guerrillas across from Bai Bang. Call in some reinforcement.”

  “Right. We’ll go together.”

  They went back out to the parked vehicles. The police chief radioed to his headquarters. A short while later, two trucks arrived with backup police power.

  “Divide up the forces and send some to Nguyen Cuong Company in old Le Loi market,” said Yong Kyu. “Have them also search the car repair shop behind the store. Now, follow us with the rest of your men.”

  After crossing the smokestack bridge, they sped toward Bai Bang. The rain was pouring down on the windshields.

  “You should have filled me in before you went off duty,” said the captain to Yong Kyu, looking straight ahead.

  His hands locked on the steering wheel, Yong Kyu was peering at th
e shafts of rain frozen in mid-air by the Jeep’s headlights.

  “I didn’t want to take the responsibility . . .”

  “But now, have you changed your mind?”

  “Toi was my partner, sir.”

  What Yong Kyu was feeling then was entirely different from what he had felt at Stapley’s death. He had no way to identify with Stapley’s behavior. There had been no choice for him. Toi’s death, however, was a disgrace, like the ends of Korean soldiers whose limbs had been lopped off, or whose remains were carried off as heaps of ashes. Yong Kyu seemed angry with himself for feeling self-pity. Something hot was running down his face. I’m exhausted, Yong Kyu murmured to himself. His throat was throbbing.

  Yong Kyu had only been to that alley once, but he remembered it well. He parked the car on the edge of the market on a street lined by small shops. As he got out the Jeep, the police chief came up to him.

  “Their base is in the Banh Hao store.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In the middle of these shops. In back of the store there’s a warehouse and a residence.”

  They crept up stealthily. The police chief led his men around to the house in the rear, and Yong Kyu and the captain, with a few policemen, gathered out front by the shuttered windows of the store. There was a wooden door in front, reinforced with tin sheets. Realizing there was no other way inside, they began to crack the shutters with their boots and rifle butts. The wood splintered noisily and the glass behind the shutters broke into pieces.

  When they started trying to climb through, a spray of bullets came from automatic weapons on the inside. One of the policemen was hit and went down. Yong Kyu and the captain dashed inside and took cover behind some rice bushels, then returned fire towards the interior. Judging from the shooting noises, a fight was also raging at the house out back. As in the jungle, Yong Kyu kept on firing as he rushed over to the warehouse door. A policeman came up beside him, stuck his gun into the warehouse and fired. Another policeman meanwhile had pulled the ring on a grenade and lobbed it inside the storage area. There was an explosion and from inside, flames and smoke rushed out.

  The first to enter the warehouse was a police lieutenant. Yong Kyu rushed right behind him, instinctively firing a burst of rounds at a spot from which he heard something. A mountain of flour sacks piled almost to the ceiling tumbled down, a man’s dark figure falling with it. A shaded light hanging from the ceiling was swaying back and forth. Yong Kyu’s shadow stretched onto the wall and then shrank again. Quickly he took aim at the form of the fallen man. The air was full of white dust raised by the torn flour sacks. The man stared up at Yong Kyu, who saw that it was the younger brother of Major Pham. An AK47 was lying on the floor near his bent arm. He stretched out his arm to try to grasp the rifle. Yong Kyu fired again. The man’s body twitched from the shock of taking close fire, and soon stopped moving. The flour bags beside him gradually turned red.

  “Sergeant Ahn, are you all right?” came the captain’s voice behind him.

  The police lieutenant was down by the door, gasping desperately. Another policeman who had followed Yong Kyu in was lying at the side door and firing into the inner quarters of the house. The captain and Yong Kyu carried the moaning lieutenant outside. After a while the gunfire ceased.

  Two visitors arrived at the general’s villa in Bai Bang. They came in a khaki sedan for VIP use, dispatched from the American forces. It being early in the morning, the general was still in his bedroom. A staff sergeant with the security detail stopped them to check if they were armed. One of the two men wore a uniform without any rank insignia, and the other was in a white half-sleeve shirt and a pair of black pants. The man in uniform was holding up a black umbrella for the civilian and himself.

  “I have to confirm your identities, sir,” said the staff sergeant.

  The uniform took out a badge of the security forces from his back pocket and showed it to the staff sergeant. But the latter would not step back.

  “The general is commander-in-chief of Quang Nam Province, sir. Whatever your unit affiliation may be, you should observe the proper security protocol, sir.”

  “This gentleman is from Independence Palace. Get out of the way.”

  As the uniform spoke thus, the civilian intervened in a gentlemanly tone, “Ah, leave him be. I’m from the military council.”

  He took out an ID and handed it over to the staff sergeant. Freezing at attention, the staff sergeant still managed to salute with propriety. The civilian put his ID away and asked in a gentle voice, “May I see General Liam now, please?”

  “Yes, sir, let me show you the way, sir.”

  The staff sergeant walked like a robot to the front hall and pulled the rope. There came a low and heavy sound of a bell, and a butler dressed in a traditional cotton shirt opened the door.

  “These gentlemen just came from Saigon,” said the staff sergeant. “They are here to see the general.”

  The butler bowed politely and stepped aside. The civilian took a long look at the luxurious interior decor, then walked over to a sofa and sat down. The uniform stood in one corner in a posture of parade rest. The general came down the stairs in his bathrobe. The civilian got up slowly and spoke with a smile on his face.

  “It’s been a long time since we last met, sir.”

  They shook hands.

  “And what brings you here?”

  At the general’s question, the civilian scanned the living room once more. “A very nice place you’re living in, sir.”

  Noticing that the general’s glance was riveted on the uniformed man standing in the corner, the civilian spoke to the uniform.

  “Why don’t you come over here and have a seat?”

  Only then did the uniform salute the general.

  “As I understand it, Colonel, your unit is in Hoi An, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. But I’ve been assigned to escort the Cabinet member here.”

  The butler brought in morning coffee.

  “Has some emergency arisen?” asked the general, raising his cup.

  “We have a big problem. Recently the National Liberation Front issued a statement, and its content appeared in a few newspapers in Saigon. The statement, issued in the name of Immi Allero, chairman of the People’s Autonomy Movement in the highlands of Quang Nam Province, criticizes the recent operations in the districts of Ha Thanh and An Hoa.”

  The general began to raise his voice. “That’s no more than typical enemy propaganda, isn’t it?”

  “The problem is, sir, that the commanding officers in the area gave out arbitrary orders to massacre the Katu, one of the highland tribes.”

  At those words from the civilian, the general finally got to his feet and started pacing about the room.

  “You mean to tell me you’ve come here with a local problem like that? Does the military council have a shortage of work to do?”

  “Sir, no need to get excited, please. The military council had discussed this problem in the presence of His Excellency, the President, as well as the vice-president. We’ve reached the conclusion that this is something that must be handled quietly within the council. The reason I came here is to take care of that problem, sir. Independence Palace had received several different kinds of grievances concerning the enterprises conducted by the government office of Quang Nam Province. His Excellency the President himself understands you, sir.

  “It’s been several days since I arrived here. I’ve investigated the points raised in the complaint letters and also checked the validity of the enemy propaganda concerning the operations in An Hoa. As for the deployment of materials for the phoenix hamlets project and the cinnamon operations . . . they can be settled within the council, but we have determined that the massacre of the Katu tribe must be handled publicly. Of course, you, sir, will not bear responsibility for anything. Your successor will have to deal with all the af
termath.”

  The general seemed somewhat relieved, and he lit his pipe and sat down on a chair again.

  “What do you mean successor ... are you telling me I should resign from the provincial governorship?”

  “You’ve been requested to join the Cabinet, sir. Except, just until the situation is quietly settled down, take a six-month trip abroad, please.”

  “When am I to leave?”

  “Leave for Saigon today, sir. Until the successor arrives, I’ll stay at the provincial office and try to take care of things there. And . . .”

  He signaled with his eyes to the uniform sitting next to him. “A man named Pham Quyen is your chief adjutant, isn’t he, sir? It’s inevitable that he be punished.”

  As he spoke he took out several documents. “This is an indictment filed by Lieutenant Colonel Quia, a battalion commander who previously was in charge of Second Division operations in Ha Thanh. He sent this to the military council and to Independence Palace. And this other document is a report on the phoenix hamlets project submitted by the late Colonel Cao, the former police superintendent in Da Nang. Based on these documents we’ll be able to sort out the persons to be punished. We were hoping that you’d give us a little of your time and cooperate with the colonel, sir.”

  The general agreed wholeheartedly. “I understand. Shall we to go to my study together?”

  “On this visit, I’ve become deeply interested in cinnamon, sir,” said the civilian.

  “Central Vietnam has been famous for its cinnamon crop from the old days,” said the general quite nonchalantly as he headed up the stairs. “That’s something His Excellency, the President himself, is very much aware of.”

  When the Governor entered into the office of the chief adjutant a little later than his usual office hours, Major Pham and a private were the only ones on duty in the office. Lieutenant Kiem’s desk was vacant. As the two men stood to attention and saluted, the general walked quietly into the governor’s office. Of the two men who’d followed him in, the one in civilian dress spoke bluntly to Pham Quyen in a low form of speech. “You, are you Major Pham Quyen?”