Mr. Conway did not smile. “I hope I’ve done a good job of briefing you. That always concerns me.”
“You’ve done an excellent job, Mr. Conway. Sleep well tonight.”
“Thank you.”
He put out his hand, but I said, “Hold on. I almost forgot.” I opened my overnight bag and handed Mr. Conway my Danielle Steel book.
He looked at it curiously, as though there were some special significance or meaning to the book.
I said, “I don’t want that found at home if I don’t make it back. Understand? Give it to somebody. You don’t have to read it yourself.”
Mr. Conway looked at me with some concern, then again put out his hand, and we shook. He left without even thanking me for the book.
I opened the plastic bag left on the table, putting the money, tickets, hotel vouchers, letter, and visa in my breast pocket. I put the malaria pills, antibiotic, and The Lonely Planet Guide in my overnight bag.
At the bottom of the plastic bag was something wrapped in tissue paper. I unwrapped it and saw it was one of those stupid snow globes. Inside the globe was a model of the Wall, black against the falling snow.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Asiana Air 747 began its descent into Kimpo International Airport, Seoul, Korea. After fifteen hours in the air, I wasn’t sure of the local time, or even what day it was. The sun was about forty-five degrees off the horizon, so it was either mid-morning or mid-afternoon, depending on where east and west were. When you’re circling the globe, none of this matters, anyway, unless you’re the pilot.
I noticed that the landscape below was covered with snow. I listened to the hydraulic sounds of the aircraft as it made its initial approach.
The seat next to me was empty, and I hoped I was as lucky on the final leg of the trip.
Then again, there might not be a final leg if I was turned around in Seoul. Of course, the chances of that happening were near zero, but they always put that in your mind as a happy possibility. I had a similar experience the first two times I was headed to Vietnam. My orders said “Southeast Asia,” instead of the V word, as if I might be headed to Bangkok or Bali. Right.
It was time to read the letter that had started this whole thing. I took a plain envelope from my pocket, opened it, and drew out several sheets of folded paper. The first sheet was a photocopy of the original envelope, addressed to Tran Quan Lee, followed by an abbreviation, which I supposed was his rank, then a series of numbers and letters that was his North Vietnamese army unit designation.
The return address was Tran Van Vinh, followed by his rank and Army unit. In neither address was there a geographical location, of course, because armies move, and the mail follows the soldiers.
I put the envelope aside and looked at the letter itself. It was a typed, three-page translation, and there was no photocopy of the original letter in Vietnamese, making me again wonder what was missing or altered.
Regarding the provenance of this letter, I tried to imagine the North Vietnamese army postal system during the war, which must have been as primitive as a nineteenth-century postal system; letters handed from person to person, to couriers, making their way slowly from civilians to their soldiers, or from soldiers to family, or soldiers to soldiers, as in this case, and very often, the recipient, the sender, or both were dead before the letter was delivered.
In any case, it must have taken months for letters to reach their recipients, if at all. I thought of the three hundred thousand missing North Vietnamese soldiers, and the million known dead, many of them vaporized by thousand-pound bombs from B-52 strikes along the infiltration routes.
It was a miracle, I realized, that this letter ever got out of the besieged city of Quang Tri, another miracle that the letter found its recipient, Tran Quan Lee in the A Shau Valley, nearly a hundred kilometers away, and a further miracle that the letter was found on Lee’s body by an American soldier. The final miracle, perhaps, was that this American soldier, Victor Ort, survived the war himself, saved the letter for almost thirty years, and then made an attempt to get the letter to Hanoi via the Vietnam Veterans of America.
The letter, however, had been rerouted to Army CID Headquarters in Falls Church, Virginia, because of some sharp-eyed person at VVA, an army veteran, whose instinct would be to go to Army CID instead of the FBI. If the FBI had gotten it first, I knew, the CID would never have heard about it, and neither would I. But as it turned out, it was a CID case with FBI help, an arrangement that probably satisfied no one, myself included.
I looked again at the typed translation, not quite ready to read it until I’d come to fully understand how this thing landed in my lap.
And then there was the question of why I was doing this. Aside from Cynthia, there was duty, honor, country, not to mention boredom, curiosity, and a little macho posturing. In fact, my separation from active duty had not ended on just the right note, and this assignment would certainly be the final note, high or low.
I looked at the letter and saw it was dated 8 February 1968. I read Tran Van Vinh’s words to his about-to-be deceased brother:
My beloved brother Lee,
As I write this letter, which I hope finds you well and in good spirits, I lay wounded with several of my comrades in the city of Quang Tri. Do not worry, I am not badly injured, but have received some shrapnel wounds to my back and legs which I know will heal. We are being tended to by a captured doctor from the Catholic Hospital, and by medics of our own People’s Army.
The battle for the city rages around us, and the American bombers come day and night, and their artillery falls without end. But we are safe in a deep cellar of the Buddhist high school outside the walls of the Citadel. We have food and water, and I hope to return to duty soon.
I looked up from the letter and recalled those days around the city of Quang Tri. My battalion was to the west of the city, and we never saw any of the fighting within the city, but we did see North Vietnamese soldiers straggling out of Quang Tri, which they’d held for only a week or so before the South Vietnamese army rooted them out. The enemy began exfiltrating in small groups, trying to reach the relative safety of the hills and jungle to the west, and my battalion’s mission was to intercept them. We’d managed to find, kill, or capture some of them, but not all of them. Statistically, Tran Van Vinh’s chances of making it out of the city were small, and his chances of having survived the final seven years of the war were even smaller. And if he had survived, would he be alive almost thirty years later? Not likely, but this case already had a few miracles in the equation.
I went back to the letter and read:
I must tell you of a strange and interesting occurrence that I witnessed yesterday. I was lying on the second floor of a government building within the Citadel, having been wounded by the shrapnel of an exploding artillery shell which killed two comrades who were with me. There was a hole in the floor, and I was looking down through the hole, hoping to see some of my comrades. At this moment, two American soldiers entered the building. My first thought was to kill them with my rifle, but I didn’t know how many others were close by, so I held my fire.
These two Americans did not make a search of the building that was half destroyed. Instead, they began talking. I could see from the rank insignia on their helmets that one was a captain and the other a lieutenant — two officers! What a good kill I could make! But I held my fire. I could also see that both men had the shoulder insignia of the helicopter cavalry, who are numerous in this area, though I had not seen them in the city before.
As I watched, ready to kill them if they saw me, they began to argue with each other. The lieutenant was being disrespectful of the higher ranking officer, and the captain was very angry with him. This continued for perhaps two or three minutes, then the lieutenant turned his back on the captain, and walked toward the opening through which they had entered.
I then saw the captain draw his pistol and shout something to the lieutenant, who turned back toward the captain. Nothing more was
said, and the captain shot the lieutenant in the front of his head. The lieutenant’s helmet flew into the air, and the man was thrown back and lay dead on the floor among the rubble.
I was so surprised at this that I failed to react as the captain ran out of the building. I waited to see if the sound of the pistol would bring enemy soldiers, but there was much gunfire and explosions around the city, and this single shot was not heard above the others.
I lay there and looked down through the hole until nightfall. Then I descended the staircase and went to the body of the dead American. I took his canteen of water, some cans of food, his rifle and pistol, his wallet, and other items from his body. He had a fine watch, which I took, but as you know, if I were captured by the Americans with this watch, or any other American items, I would be shot. So, I will have to decide what to do with the things I have taken.
I thought you would be interested in this occurrence, though I can attach no meaning to it.
Have you heard from our parents and sister? I have heard from no one in Tam Ki for two months. Our cousin, Liem, has written to me and said that they see trucks filled with our wounded comrades passing through each week, and long columns of healthy comrades marching south to liberate our country from the American invaders, and from their Saigon puppet soldiers. Liem says the American bombers have increased their activity in the area, so, of course, I am worried about our family. He says the food in Tam Ki is sufficient but not plentiful. The harvest in April should provide ample rice for the village.
I have not heard from Mai, but I know she has gone to Hanoi to nurse the sick and wounded. I hope she will be safe there from the American bombs. I would have liked her to remain in Tam Ki, but she is very patriotic, and goes where she is needed.
My brother, may you be safe and well, and may this letter find its way to you, and then to our family. If mother, father, and sister read this, I send my greetings and my love. I have much faith that I will be out of Quang Tri in a day or two, in a safe place so that I may fully recover, and continue with my duty to free our country. Write to me and tell me how it goes with you and your comrades.
(Signed) Your loving brother, Vinh
I refolded the letter and thought about what I’d read. This letter, written to a soon-to-be-dead brother certainly gave me a different perspective of the war. Yet, despite the stilted translation, and the patriotic tag-ons, I thought this was the kind of letter that could have been written by an American GI; the subtext of loneliness, homesickness, fear, concern about family, and, of course, the barely hidden anxiety about Mai, who I guessed was a girlfriend. Girlfriends working in military hospitals in the big city were certainly subject to some temptations and pressures the world over. I smiled.
I felt that I could relate a little to Tran Van Vinh, and I realized that we’d once shared the common experience of war at the same time and place. I might even like the guy, if I actually met him. Of course, if I’d met him in 1968, I would have killed him.
As for Lee, remarkably our paths may also have crossed. My battalion of the First Cavalry Division, after the action at Quang Tri in February, was airlifted to Khe Sanh in April to relieve the siege there, then airlifted into the A Shau Valley in May. We were an air mobile unit, meaning that wherever the shit was hitting the fan, we’d go in by helicopter. How lucky can a guy get?
Well, enough pleasant reverie. I re-read the letter, concentrating on the details and circumstances of the alleged murder. First, it certainly did look like murder, though that might depend on what the argument was about. Second, it was a strange and interesting occurrence, as Sergeant Tran Van Vinh said.
I began from the beginning of the letter — a government building within the Citadel. Many Vietnamese cities had citadels, built by the French in most cases. The Citadel was the walled and fortified center of the city that contained government buildings, schools, hospitals, military headquarters, and even residential sections. I knew the Citadel at Quang Tri because I was ordered to an awards ceremony there in July ’68, out on the parade ground, where the Vietnamese government was handing out medals to American soldiers for various battles. The Citadel was half in ruins, and I realized now that I must have been standing somewhere in the vicinity of where this incident had taken place six months earlier. I received the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry, and the Vietnamese colonel who pinned it on me had, unfortunately for me, been trained by the French, and he gave me a kiss on both cheeks. I should have told him to kiss my ass, but it wasn’t his fault I was there.
In any case, I could sort of picture where this incident took place. I tried to picture, also, these two American officers coming into the half-ruined building within the Citadel, while the battle raged around them, and Tran Van Vinh lying there with his itchy trigger finger on his AK-47, bleeding from an American artillery shell burst.
The American officers were definitely not combat infantrymen, or they’d have their troops all around them; these guys were undoubtedly rear echelon types, most probably MACV advisors, and, as I recalled, they had their headquarters somewhere in the Citadel. Somehow they’d gotten separated from whatever South Vietnamese army unit they were attached to, or the South Viets had taken a powder, which they sometimes did. This was partly speculation on my part, but it was the most logical explanation of how two American officers wound up alone, without troops, in a city that was garrisoned solely by the South Vietnamese army.
So, these two guys are caught in the middle of a slugfest between the North and South Viets, the city is a killing zone, and these two find the time to go off on their own and have an argument about something that leads to one guy blowing away the other guy. Strange. And I agreed with Tran Van Vinh—“I can attach no meaning to it.” But I had a feeling that whatever that argument was about was what this whole thing was about.
I glanced at the letter again: the captain ran out of the building. Tran Van Vinh, smart survivor that he is, doesn’t move until nightfall, then he goes down to the body of the lieutenant, has some water, which is his first priority, then takes the dead American’s C rations, and rifle, and also his pistol — probably a Colt .45—his wallet, and “other items from his body.” Such as what? The dog tags undoubtedly. This was a big prize for the enemy and was proof that you’d killed an American, and it got you a piece of fish or something. But as Sergeant Tran Van Vinh noted, if he were captured with any American military items, he’d be shot, Geneva Convention notwithstanding. So, he had to decide what to do with these items, these war trophies.
Maybe he kept them, and maybe, whether or not he was still alive, they were proudly displayed in his little family hut somewhere. Maybe.
So, what was missing from the translation of this letter? The phrase and other items from his body may have been substituted for Vinh’s actual words.
But I could be reading too much into this, and maybe I was more suspicious than I needed to be. A little suspicion and speculating are good; too much and you start to outsmart yourself.
I realized that we were almost on the ground. A few seconds later, the 747 touched down, rolled out, and taxied toward the terminal.
* * *
Inside Terminal Two of Seoul’s Kimpo Airport, I passed quickly through Passport Control and Customs.
I’d actually been stationed in Korea over twenty years before: six months at the DMZ, six months in Seoul. It was okay duty, the Koreans seemed to like their American allies, and the American soldiers in return behaved reasonably well. I had only a single homicide case involving a Korean citizen, three rapes, and a bunch of drunk and disorderly cases. Not bad, really, for fifty thousand guys in a place they didn’t want to be.
I passed into the Main Terminal, which was huge and cavernous, with a mezzanine level that ran around all four sides.
I had a four-hour layover, and my baggage was checked through to Ho Chi Minh City, or so they said at Dulles.
There seemed to be a lot of noodle shops and snack bars around, and the whole place smelled of fish and cabba
ge, which brought back a lot of memories of twenty years ago.
I noticed a big digital clock on the wall and saw it was 15:26, and the day, in English, said Friday. In fact, almost everything was subtitled in English, so I followed a sign that said Airline Clubs.
The Morning Calm Club was on the mezzanine level, and once inside, I gave my ticket to the young lady behind the counter. She smiled and said, “Welcome to the club. Please to sign book.”
I signed the register, and I noticed she was staring at my ticket. She said, as I expected, “Oh, Mr. Brenner, there is a message for you.” She rummaged around behind the counter and handed me a sealed envelope with my name on it.
“Thank you.” I picked up my overnight bag and went into a big, well-appointed lounge. I got myself a coffee, sat in a club chair, and looked at my message. It was a telex from Karl, and it said: It’s a go — All instructions from Mr. C. remain — Narrowing down names in personnel files here — I may see you in Bangkok — Honolulu a possibility — Have a safe and successful trip — K.
I put the telex in my pocket and sipped my coffee. It’s a go—great news. Honolulu a possibility. What the hell did that mean?
I went to the club’s business center and used the shredder to destroy Karl’s telex, my e-mail to Cynthia, and the Tran Van Vinh letter. I then made two photocopies of my visa and passport, put them in my overnight bag, and went back to the lounge. I found a day-old Washington Post and skimmed through it.
I guess I was a little annoyed about Karl’s Honolulu a possibility, and the vagueness of that remark. Had he spoken to Cynthia? Did he mean Honolulu was okay with him, but Cynthia was undecided? Or did he mean Honolulu was a possibility depending on what happened in Bangkok? And what the hell was going on with Cynthia? Karl is so fucking insensitive he didn’t even mention if he’d spoken to her.
I was getting myself pissed off, which was not the way to go into an assignment.
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