A River in May

by Edward Wilson

  Nhung arrived at the entrance gate to the HQ compound as promised. She had borrowed her mother’s Honda and was wearing a yellow ao dai and her hair unbraided and free. Lopez signed her in. She then had to proceed under the watchtower, past a machine-gun bunker and through a hut with infra-red lights for checking identity cards. Despite being his guest, Nhung still had to pass through a dressing cubicle where a female guard strip-searched her for weapons, while another guard inspected the Honda’s fuel tank for explosives.

  They left her bike near the C-team squash courts. ‘It’s nice here,’ said Nhung. She looked surprised. There were palm trees, manicured lawns and neatly kept paths. The sleeping quarters were long low buildings with verandas; everything was tidy and freshly whitewashed, even the rocks that lined the paths were painted white.

  ‘It’s very quiet. Where are the Americans? Have they decided to go home already?’

  ‘They’re down at the beach for the Sunday barbecue. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Yes, a little.’

  Lopez led her to the beach where several Americans were already drunk. The air was full of the smell of burning charcoal and meat, and the loud laughter of the Americans and the nervous laughter of prostitutes. Two officers, muscular and well endowed, were emerging naked from the South China Sea.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Lopez touching Nhung on the arm to guide her away. ‘I didn’t know they’d be like this.’

  Nhung had her hand over her mouth and was laughing. ‘It doesn’t matter, not in the least. I think they’re very funny.’ Her voice seemed to Lopez so refined, almost English.

  They walked a short distance up the beach to a quiet place in the dunes. ‘Shall we sit here?’ said Lopez.

  Nhung took a straw mat out of her bag and spread it neatly on the sand. She tucked her ao dai to her thighs and sat with her legs folded under her.

  ‘Would you like something to eat? I think there are burgers, sausages, steaks and spare-ribs.’

  ‘Perhaps I will just have an orange drink.’

  Lopez wasn’t hungry either. Hill 60 had left him with a distaste for the smell of burnt meat. Sometimes eating meat made him sick; there were too many associations. He brought Nhung an orange soda, and a beer for himself.

  They finished their drinks and strolled along the beach towards Marble Mountain. The mountain was a squat turret of jagged rocks that looked strange, somehow mislaid, on the flat coastal plain. When they were out of sight of the others, Nhung told Lopez the plan. The camp at Nui Hoa Den was going to be attacked ‘from within and without’ between ten and eleven o’clock on the night of 11 May. Lopez’s job was to disable the radios and to put explosives down the mortar tubes in the Americans-only inner perimeter. As soon as someone dropped a round down the mortar tube, it would blow up the entire mortar pit and kill everyone in it. Lopez suggested that he could also lay charges in the ammunition bunkers.

  ‘That would be a terrible waste,’ said Nhung. ‘The attacking forces will want to take away the ammunition to use themselves – “One uses war to feed war”.’

  It seemed to Lopez that a part of the plan had been left out. ‘What’s going to happen to me?’

  ‘What about you? Why do you think you’re so special? When the sappers go in, they’re just going to kill everyone. It’ll be too dark and too confusing to tell friend from foe.’ Nhung stopped to shake sand out of her shoes. ‘But fortunately for you, the cadre thinks that you might not have outlived your usefulness. If you want to live, get out of the camp by eight o’clock. There’s a place on the river where the barges from the mine used to load up with coal in the days when they sent it down to Hoi An. Someone will be waiting for you in the shadow of the second derelict barge. If necessary, say that you are the agent of Phoung Hoa – that’s my alias.’

  ‘Phoenix flower?’

  ‘I know, it’s really corny – it’s the cadre’s idea of a joke.’

  They were in the shadow of Marble Mountain. There was still a US Marine observation post on the top of the mountain, but the rock below was porous with caves and caverns that sheltered hard-core guerrillas. No one knew how the guerrillas got their supplies. No attempt to clean them out had ever succeeded. Maybe, thought Lopez, the dark rock was the gateway to an underworld that stretched forever. ‘What’s it doing there?’ he said. ‘No other rocks, otherwise a flat coastal plain. It’s like a hulk washed up from the sea.’

  ‘It’s the Turtle’s Egg. Do you know the story?’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  ‘You’re still young enough to learn,’ said Nhung.

  ‘Teach me then.’

  ‘Listen carefully, and don’t ask questions until I’m finished. A long time ago a young fisherman was caught in a storm at sea and his boat sank. He tried to swim for shore, but was swept farther and farther out. Just as he was about to give up and drown, he was rescued by a giant turtle who carried him to the shore. The fisherman asked the turtle how he could show gratitude for having his life saved. The turtle gave the young man a large egg which he was to care for and protect against predators.’ Nhung paused. ‘Surely, you don’t want to hear a Vietnamese fairy story?’

  ‘Please don’t stop, it’s getting interesting.’

  ‘Well, the fisherman covered the egg with sand and watched over it day and night. One day the egg cracked open and a beautiful young woman emerged.’

  ‘I thought that was going to happen.’

  ‘Be quiet and listen, or you will have to leave the class. The young woman said, “I am the spirit of the turtle. Thank you for protecting me.” The two married and were very happy, but also very sad.’

  ‘Why were they sad?’

  ‘Why? Because they both knew that one day the woman would have to return to the sea. The sad day came: the beautiful woman changed into a turtle and crawled back into the sea. And,’ Nhung pointed to Marble Mountain, ‘that is what remains of her cracked eggshell – so the story must be true.’

  Lopez looked away. A US Navy destroyer was anchored a mile out to sea. Its silhouette against the horizon was low and sleek, with the promise of speed – like a racing yacht. He remembered a fast beam reach down the bay, and Ianthe hauling hard on the jib sheet and leaning back over the gunwale in a haze of spray and sunlight.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Nhung touched his face. ‘You’re crying.’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

  She put her hand on his arm. ‘It’s not such a sad story – they had some time together before she returned to the sea.’

  Lopez didn’t say anything: he knew that nothing he said or felt would make sense to her. They continued walking along the beach until the barbed wire barriers of the C and C North compound blocked their path. After the attack that had killed sixteen Americans, the compound’s wire had been extended all the way to the sea.

  A boat was coming toward the beach. The sea was high and it was wallowing in the swell. The boat was a big broad-beamed motor whaler, a traditional lifeboat and ship’s tender, about thirty feet long. It reminded Lopez of regatta week at Annapolis, with midshipmen in starched dress whites taking parties from shore to yacht. When the whaler got near the beach, one of the crew threw out a stern anchor; he paid out the anchor warp and the boat slowed, the engines still churning slowly as the whaler mounted the beach. USS Richard E Kraus DD849 was stenciled on its bows.

  An officer jumped out of the boat into the surf while two crew carried an anchor up the beach. It was all so smartly done, so text-book perfect. The officer spotted Lopez and Nhung and walked up the beach toward them. He seemed uncertain, confused perhaps by Lopez’s brown skin and tiger-stripe CIDG uniform and Nhung’s traditional ao dai, and kept his hand cautiously on the .45 automatic that swung from his hip. ‘Do either of you speak English?’

  Lopez was tempted to a wisecrack, but simply said, ‘Yes.’

  The naval officer, wearing the silver bar of a lieutenant junior grade and an Annapolis ring, was as handsome as a film star, with an uncanny resemblance
to James Dean and a still-uncorrupted purity. ‘I’m trying to find the Marine Air Wing. A classmate of mine is a jarhead Chinook pilot, and we brought some stuff for him.’ The crew were piling up boxes on the beach. ‘Things you can’t get here: filet mignon steak, Maryland crab cakes, couple of gallons of Tabasco sauce. It took some convincing to get the skipper to come in close; we’ve already taken some hits from counter-battery fire. I allowed for a south-running tide, and my coxswain kept to the compass bearing, but we still seem to be -'

  Lopez heard voices. Four marines were running along the beach, and one of them – presumably the classmate – was shouting, ‘Hey, Frank old buddy! You missed us by about three hundred yards! Cast off again, and I’ll con you in.’ The marines and sailors re-loaded, and pushed the boat back out. Has there ever, thought Lopez, been another war like this?

  As the boat floundered through the surf, Lopez and Nhung turned back toward the compound. They didn’t need a compass or a pilot; they knew where they were going and what they were going to do that afternoon. Theirs was a silent understanding conveyed by a touch, a look, a closeness. They left the beach and went back to Lopez’s quarters in the transient officers’ billet. The billet was another low gray beach house of weathered clapboard, with shuttered windows and louvered doors leading on to a veranda, that had been left behind by the French Army. It reminded Lopez of the holiday cottage on Cape Hatteras where he had stayed with her all those years ago – bare floorboards grainy with sand and the constant sound of the sea. Lopez was sharing a large airy room with two helicopter pilots and the captain who used to command Lang Khe – they still hadn’t decided what to do with him. The pilots weren’t there, but the captain was lying on his bunk clad only in shorts and dog tags. His face was beaded with sweat and he seemed to be struggling for breath. His skin looked clammy. Lopez gently asked if he was asleep.

  ‘I can’t sleep.’

  ‘Are you sick?’

  ‘Yes. And so are you.’ He looked at Nhung. ‘And so is she. I guess you want me to leave?’

  ‘No, we’ll go someplace else.’

  ‘Don’t bother, Trung Uy Lopez.’ The captain got up and began to dress. ‘You and your girlfriend stay here. It’s the honeymoon suite. I’ll have room service send a bottle of champagne and a dozen cherrystone oysters on the half-shell – you come buckets when you eat oysters.’ The captain put his arm around Lopez and put his face close. Lopez could smell his breath, alcohol-sweet with bourbon. ‘Get the hell out of this place, Lopez. If the slopes don’t kill you, our guys will.’ Then he clumped out on to the veranda, his boots still loose and unlaced.

  Lopez pushed aside the mosquito netting over his bed to make room for Nhung.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘He doesn’t have a job. His camp was overrun, but he managed to escape and now he just mopes around, drinking and feeling guilty about even being alive.’

  ‘Guilt is a useless emotion.’

  Lopez held her close. Her mouth opened against his. There was no coquetry, her body started to writhe as soon as he touched her. She suddenly stopped, but only to slip off her clothes, neatly fold them and pile them beside the bed. Her breasts were little more than buds, her arms slender as lotus stems, but her legs were strong and well shaped. At first she seemed so fragile, but when she wrapped herself around him Lopez felt a body as supple and taut as steel cable. He knew that she was stronger than he, stronger than all of them put together.

  When they began to make love, Nhung arched her pelvis and stroked the back of his neck. Without coyness she showed him how to touch her, when to be gentle, when to be passionate. He felt her hot breath panting in his ear and saw her brown legs entwined with his own brown legs. He knew that he was no longer a stranger, that he was coming home. He moved, lost deep in her, so deep. Lopez could feel her gripping him hard and pulling him to where it gave her the most pleasure. Afterwards, she curled herself into a ball, alone again. She whispered a song. Not for him, but for herself.

  She walked home to face the night alone,

  While her lover fared the long, long way.

  Love split their moon. Half swayed down and slept

  By her lone pillow, half lit his far road.

  She stopped singing and held Lopez’s hand to her face. ‘Are you disappointed that I wasn’t a virgin?’

  ‘Of course not, that’s a silly question.’

  ‘Some families are very traditional. There are many Vietnamese men who would never have me as a wife.’

  ‘Do you still have a lover?’

  ‘Not any more. It happened when I was at university in Saigon. I had a friend – just a friend at first – who was also a student at the university. He was studying music.’ She turned away and didn’t say anything else.

  ‘What did he play, what instrument?’

  ‘He’s not a musician, he’s a composer. But he does play most stringed instruments. He’s a good violinist, but he prefers an old Vietnamese lute called the ty ba. I used to accompany him on the sao truc, a form of flute. We were both members of a traditional music group.’

  She went quiet again. It seemed to Lopez that part of her wanted desperately to talk about it, but another part wanted to forget it all. ‘Why did it end?’

  ‘He didn’t want me any more.’

  ‘Because of your activities in the National Liberation Front?’

  ‘No, all that came later.’

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you that.’

  Lopez could feel her freeze. He caressed her and held her to him.

  ‘Don’t you see that worrying too much about the past – especially being jealous – is a waste of emotion? You should use the past as a book from which to learn, not as a knife to cut yourself.’

  They lay together, silently entwined. Lopez felt Nhung’s body loosen as she began to sleep. He lay awake next to her constructing images of her life. He visualized the composer lover wearing thick spectacles and having long Brylcreemed hair brushed straight back from a high sensitive forehead. He imagined them strolling along the boulevards as if Saigon were Strauss’s Vienna, talking about music and the fleetingness of their love. Strolling beneath the dead trees that an American construction battalion later cut down with chainsaws.

  Then there was nothing but the sounds of the sea and the rise and fall of Nhung’s breathing. Then no dreams, no more images – just the sweet deep after-sleep of love. It seemed hours before Nhung shook him awake. ‘I must go, it is late.’ As soon as they were in public Nhung assumed again her modest air. Lopez knew that she would regard a public farewell kiss as the height of vulgarity. Despite everything, she was a reflection of her class and culture. Nhung was searched again prior to leaving to ascertain that she was smuggling no wristwatches, no bottles of whiskey or fragmentation grenades out of the compound. She emerged from the search cubicle and kick-started her Honda.

  He found it awkward to say goodbye. ‘Are we going to meet again?’

  ‘Have you already forgotten? You have to come to the lycee on Tuesday morning to pick up the explosives.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be there. That’s not what I meant.’ It was impossible to talk here, among the watch towers, barbed wire, clouds of dust swirled by trucks and armored vehicles, and the clatter of helicopters.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, that sort of thing doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I don’t know what will happen,’ she said. Her face was hidden in the shadow of her straw hat. ‘When you come to the lycée, you’ll have to wait for me in the Mother Superior’s office if I’m still teaching.’

  Nhung rode off without waving or looking back. Lopez watched her disappear into the dusk and walked back to the beach house alone.

  The adjutant had an unusual surname, Glasscock. He quickly became known as ‘Crystal-prick’. On Tuesday Lopez had to borrow his jeep to go to the lycee. The adjutant tossed him the keys. ‘Bet you want some more of that gook pussy, you lucky bas
tard.’

  ‘That’s right, Crystal.’

  The closer Lopez got to the lycée, the more uncertain and frightened he became. By the time he had got as far as the RMK scrap heaps, he’d already concocted a story to tell the C-team Intelligence officer. He knew, of course, that Nhung would be arrested and tortured. He himself would be reprimanded for running a DIY intel op on his own, but he’d still get a pat on the head for turning her in and exposing the plan to overrun Nui Hoa Den. Lopez decided to let the tide decide. If when he got to the river the tide was flooding, he would stick to the plan; if ebbing, he would betray Nhung. When he got to the bridge the stern of the moored guard boat was pointing seaward – the tide was ebbing. For a second or two Lopez felt relieved, but then he realized that an ebb tide meant that it was time to go to sea, to take the chance. He would go through with it. He had to.