Up Country pb-2

by Nelson DeMille

“Yes? And what is your reason?”

  Well, I was working undercover for the United States government to investigate a strange murder case. But Colonel Mang didn’t need to know that. In fact, this question had Zen overtones to it, so I replied, “I think after my visit here, I’ll know the answer to that question.”

  He nodded appreciatively, as though this was the only possible answer.

  Colonel Mang now got down to specific questions that needed non-Zen answers. He asked me, “Are you staying in Ho Chi Minh City?”

  I replied, “I’m staying in Saigon.”

  This honked him off, and he informed me, “There is no Saigon.”

  “I saw it from the air.” Why do I piss people off? What is wrong with me?

  Colonel Mang fixed me with a cold stare and said, “Ho Chi Minh City.”

  I recalled Mr. Conway’s and the Frenchman’s advice to be firm but polite. How can you be both? But I backed off and said, “Right. Ho Chi Minh City.”

  “Correct. And how long are you staying there?”

  “Three days.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Rex.”

  “Yes? The American Generals’ Hotel.”

  “I always wanted to see where the generals stayed.”

  Mang gave me a little sneer and said, “They lived in luxury while their soldiers lived and died in the jungles and rice paddies.”

  I didn’t reply.

  He continued his political education lesson and said, “Our generals lived with us and shared the hardships. My general had no more rice than I did. He lived in a simple peasant’s hut. Your generals at An Khe base camp had air-conditioned house trailers from America. I saw these with my own eyes when we liberated the south. Did you not see these at An Khe?”

  “I did.”

  “And there was a golf course for the officers.”

  “Only nine holes,” I reminded him. “And your snipers and mortar guys made it a tough course.”

  He actually laughed, then got himself under control and said, “And I am sure you cooked better food for the officers.”

  “No, everyone got the same food.”

  “I do not believe that.”

  “Well, it’s true. Ask the next veteran you speak to.”

  Colonel Mang didn’t want any of his prejudices upset, so he changed the subject and asked me, “What rank did you retire with?”

  “Warrant officer.”

  “Yes? So, how much did they pay you?”

  Recalling that Mr. Conway said the average Vietnamese made three or four hundred dollars a year, I was a little embarrassed to reply, “About forty-five hundred dollars.”

  “A month. Correct?”

  “Right. You already know this, so why are you asking? And what is the purpose of these questions?”

  Colonel Mang did not like my retort, but like most Vietnamese, he kept his cool.

  He hit an intercom button and said something in Vietnamese. A few seconds later, the door opened and Pushy came in.

  Colonel Mang and Pushy exchanged a few words, and Pushy handed Mang the stupid snow globe, that being the only thing in my overnight bag that had obviously confused him.

  Mang examined the snow globe, and Pushy said something, so Mang shook it and watched it snow on the Vietnam Memorial. He looked up and asked me, “What is this?”

  “It’s the Vietnam War Memorial. A souvenir.”

  “Why do you have this with you?”

  “It was a gift at the airport.”

  “Yes?” He stared at the globe and shook it again. I would have laughed, but Mang might think I was laughing at him.

  Mang said, “Yes, I recognize this. The names of your dead are carved on this wall. Fifty-eight thousand. Correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  He informed me, “We have one million dead.”

  I replied, “The north and the south each had one million dead. That’s two million.”

  He said, “I do not count the enemy.”

  “Why not? They were also Vietnamese.”

  “They were American puppets.” Colonel Mang put the globe on his desk and said to me, “Please empty all your pockets on my desk. Everything.”

  I had no choice but to comply, so I put my wallet on his desk, along with the envelopes in my jacket pocket, and also my pen, comb, handkerchief, and Tic Tacs. I held on to the addresses the Frenchman had given me.

  Colonel Mang first went through my wallet, which held some American currency, credit cards, retired military ID card, with rank but no occupation, medical card, and my Virginia driver’s license.

  Next, he went through the things from my jacket, giving the pen, comb, handkerchief, and Tic Tacs a cursory inspection. Then he opened the envelopes with American money, Vietnamese money, and traveler’s checks. Next he opened the envelope that held my airline tickets, then the envelope with my hotel vouchers. He studied everything and made notes on a piece of paper. As he was writing, he said something in Vietnamese, and Pushy replied. They both seemed interested in the amount of money I had, which represented a few years’ salary for both of them. Obviously, there is no justice in the world when the defeated enemy could return to the scene of his defeat loaded down with cash.

  Anyway, Pushy said something sharply to me in Vietnamese, then repeated it, which made him laugh. The Vietnamese are worse than Americans in regard to their impatience with people who don’t speak their language. I tried to remember a Vietnamese word or two, like “Fuck you,” but I was tired, and it wasn’t coming back to me.

  Finally, Pushy left the room and forgot to take the snow globe with him. Mang continued working on his notes, then looked up at me and said, “You have reservations at the Century Riverside Hotel in Hue, and the Metropole in Hanoi.”

  I didn’t reply, and this seemed to tick him off.

  He lit another cigarette and said, “Please take your things off my desk,” as though I had annoyed him by depositing everything there.

  I gathered my wallet and envelopes, odds and ends, and put them in my pockets. I noticed that Mang held on to my passport and visa. I said, “If that’s all, Colonel, I’d like to get to my hotel.”

  “I will tell you when and if we are finished, Mr. Brenner.”

  That was the first time he’d used my name, and he wasn’t being polite; he was telling me he knew my name, my addresses in Vietnam, my departure date, and the contents of my wallet, and so forth.

  He said to me, “You have some days between your hotel reservation in Ho Chi Minh City and Hue.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Certainly you will go to An Khe.”

  I might have, but not now. I said, “If it’s possible.”

  “It is not a problem. However, part of your old base camp is a restricted area, used now by the People’s Army.”

  “Including the air-conditioned house trailers?”

  He didn’t respond to that, but said, “The town of An Khe is not restricted. However, the brothels and massage parlors are all closed as are the bars and opium dens.”

  “Well, that’s good news.”

  “Yes? You are happy that Dodge City is closed? That is what you called that district — correct? Built by your own engineers.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  Colonel Mang all of a sudden turned nasty and said to me, “Moral pollution. Degeneracy. That’s why you lost the war.”

  I wasn’t going to let him bait me, so I didn’t reply.

  Colonel Mang went on awhile about American imperialism, Agent Orange, the My Lai massacre, the bombing of Hanoi, and a few other things that even I wasn’t familiar with.

  This was a very angry man, and I couldn’t even take any personal pleasure in getting him angry because he hated me before I walked through his door.

  I recalled Mr. Conway’s advice to express remorse for the war, and I realized this wasn’t just a suggestion, but a requir
ement. I said, “The war was a terrible time for both our people, but especially for the Vietnamese, who suffered so much. I regret my country’s involvement in the war, and especially my own involvement. I’ve come here to see how the Vietnamese people are living now in peace. I think it’s good that so many American veterans are returning, and I know that many of them have contributed time and money to help heal the wounds of war. I hope to be able to do the same.”

  Colonel Mang seemed pleased with my little speech and nodded approvingly. This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, but I doubted it.

  He asked me, “And where do you go between Hue and Hanoi?”

  Actually, on a secret mission, but I replied, “I don’t know. Any suggestions?”

  “Surely you will visit some of your old battlefields?”

  “I was a cook.”

  He gave me a conspiratorial smile, like we both knew that was bullshit. He said in a flattering tone, “You seem to me like a man who would not be satisfied stirring a pot.”

  “Well, I was a real sensitive kid. The sight of blood on the pork chops used to make me sick.”

  Colonel Mang leaned across his desk and said, “I killed many Americans. How many Vietnamese did you kill?”

  I kind of lost it right then and there, and I stood and replied, “This conversation has become harassment. I’m going to report this incident to my consulate in Saigon and to my embassy in Hanoi.” I looked at my watch and said, “I’ve been here half an hour, and if you delay me one more minute, I’m going to demand that you let me call the consulate.”

  Colonel Mang, too, lost his cool, stood and slammed his hand on the desk. He shouted for the first time, “You will make no demands on me! I will demand of you! I demand from you a full itinerary of your travels in the Socialist Republic!”

  “I told you, I have no specific plans. I was told I could travel freely.”

  “I am telling you, you must give me an itinerary!”

  “Well, then, I’ll think about it. Please give me my passport and visa.”

  Colonel Mang got himself under control and sat. He said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, “Please be seated, Mr. Brenner.”

  I remained standing long enough to piss him off, then sat.

  He informed me, “I will hold your passport and return it to you before you leave Ho Chi Minh City. At that time, you will provide me with a full and accurate itinerary of your time between Ho Chi Minh City and Hue, and between Hue and Hanoi.”

  “I’d like my passport now.”

  “I do not care what you like.” He looked at his watch and said, “You have been here ten minutes, this was a routine passport and visa check, and you are now free to leave.” He pushed my visa across the desk and said, “You may take this.”

  I stood and took my visa, leaving the snow globe on Mang’s desk, and walked toward the door.

  Colonel Mang needed a parting shot and said, “This is my country, Mr. Brenner, and you are not the one with the guns any longer.”

  I had no intention of responding, but then I started to think about this guy’s anger, his obviously traumatic war years as a combat platoon leader. I’m not a very empathetic guy, but because we were both combat veterans, I tried to put myself in his place.

  But even if Mang was partly entitled to his anger, it wasn’t doing him any good. I asked him, “Don’t you think it’s time to make peace with the past?”

  Colonel Mang stared at me, then stood. He said in a soft tone that I could barely hear, “Mr. Brenner, I have lost most of my family and most of my friends to American bombs and bullets. My high school class are nearly all dead. I don’t have a living male cousin, and only one of my four brothers survived the war, and he is an amputee. Now, if that happened to you, would you be able to forgive and forget?”

  “Probably not. But history and memory should serve to inform the next generation not to perpetuate the hatred.”

  He thought about that for a few seconds, then said, “You can do whatever you wish in your country. I hope you learn something here. I suggest adding to your itinerary a visit to the Museum of American War Crimes.”

  I opened the door and left.

  Standing outside was Pushy, who motioned me to walk in front of him. I re-traced my route down the narrow corridor and into the main terminal. Pushy gave me a little shove toward the baggage carousel. I walked across the deserted terminal and saw my suitcase and overnight bag, sitting at the feet of an armed soldier.

  I reached for my suitcase, but Pushy grabbed my arm. He thrust a piece of paper toward me. I took it and read the handwritten words in English: $20—Arrival Tax.

  My little guidebook had mentioned a departure tax, but I had the feeling that Pushy invented the arrival tax. I don’t like being shaken down, and it was time to push back. I crumpled up the blackmail note and threw it on the ground. “No.”

  This sent Pushy into a frenzy, and he began shouting in Vietnamese and waving his arms around. The soldier stood by impassively.

  I picked up my bags, and Pushy didn’t try to stop me. In fact, he shouted, “Di di! Di di mau!” which means get moving, and is not very polite.

  I started to turn away, then I had a good idea that would make everyone happy. I put my bags down, reached into my breast pocket, and took a twenty-dollar bill from the envelope. I showed it to Pushy and gestured toward my bags. He wrestled with this temptation for a minute, weighing about three weeks’ pay against his dignity. He looked around, then shouted at me to walk to the door as he picked up my bags. If he’d been nicer, I would have pointed out the retractable handle and wheels on the suitcase.

  Anyway, I went out into the hot, humid air, which smelled heavily of exhaust fumes. The rain was now a drizzle, and there was a covered walkway that led to a line of taxicabs. A few people did double takes at the sight of a uniformed guy carrying my baggage, and they probably thought I was a big-shot American.

  We got to the lead taxi, and the driver wanted to put the bags in the trunk, but Pushy had the drill by now and threw both bags in the trunk.

  I held out the twenty, and Pushy snatched it rudely. I really wanted to knee him in the balls, but that might have cost me another twenty. Pushy said something to me in a nasty tone of voice, then yelled at the taxi driver and stomped off.

  The driver closed the trunk, opened the passenger door, and I got inside the small Honda, not much bigger than a Civic. It stank of cigarette smoke and mildew.

  The driver jumped in the car, started it up, and sped off.

  We got clear of the airport in a few minutes, and the driver said, in passable English, “You American? Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come from Seoul?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why take you so long?”

  “The moving walkway was stuck.”

  “They ask you questions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Communists eat shit.”

  This took me by surprise and I laughed.

  The driver took a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and held the pack over his shoulder. “Smoke?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He lit his cigarette with a match and steered with his knees.

  I looked out the window and saw that the city had crept out to the airport. In place of the ramshackle bamboo huts and concession stands that I remembered on this road, I saw stucco structures. I noticed electric lines strung everywhere, and I saw TV antennas, and even a few satellite dishes. There were also a lot of small trucks and motor scooters on the road in place of the ox-drawn carts I’d remembered. Now, as then, there were a lot of bicycles. Something else new was a lot of plastic and paper trash along the road.

  I didn’t expect to see the old Vietnam, which in many ways was picturesque and pristine, but this horn honking and the TV antennas were a little jarring.

  I thought about Colonel Mang for a moment and decided that the whole incident was, indeed, random. Unfortunately, as luck would have it, my run-in w
ith the authorities had compromised the mission. I had to decide whether to push on or abort.

  The driver said, “Hotel?”

  “The Rex.”

  “American General Hotel.”

  “Really?”

  “You a soldier in Vietnam. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know. I drive many soldiers.”

  “Do they all get stopped and questioned?”

  “No. Not many. They come out of building… you know? They come… how you say?”

  “Alone? Late?”

  “Yes. Late. Communists eat shit.” He broke into loud laughter, warming to his subject. “Communists eat dog shit.”

  “Thank you. I get the picture.”

  “Mister, why the soldier carry your bag?”

  “I don’t know. What did he say?”

  “He say you are American important person, but you are imperialist dog.”

  “That’s not nice.”

  “You important person?”

  “I’m the leader of the American Communist Party.”

  He got real quiet and shot some glances at me in the rearview mirror. He said, “Joke. Right? Joke?”

  “Yes, joke.”

  “No Communists in America.”

  The conversation had a little entertainment value, but I was jet-lagged, tired, and cranky. I looked out the window. We were in old Saigon now, on a wide, well-lit boulevard whose street sign said Phan Dinh Phung. I seemed to recall that this boulevard passed the Catholic cathedral and in fact, I caught a glimpse of the cathedral spires over the low, French-style buildings.

  My new friend said, “My father a soldier. He was American ami. You understand?”

  “Biet,” I replied, in one of my few remembered Vietnamese words.

  He glanced back at me, and we made eye contact. He nodded, turned back to his driving, and said, “He prisoner. Never see him again.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Yes. Fucking Communists. Yes?”

  I didn’t reply. I was, I realized, more than tired. I was back. Thank you, Karl.

  We turned onto Le Loi Street, Saigon’s main drag, and approached the Rex Hotel.

  I never saw any of Saigon when I was an infantryman. It was off limits, except for official business, and the average grunt had no official business in Saigon. But during my brief tour as an MP, I got to know the city a little. It was, then, a lively place, but it was a besieged capital, and the lights were always dimmed, and the motor traffic was mostly military. Sandbags were piled up at strategic locations where Vietnamese police and soldiers kept an eye on things. Every restaurant and café had steel gratings in front of the windows to discourage the local Viet Cong on motor scooters from tossing satchel charges and grenades at the paying customers. Yet despite the war, there was a frenetic energy about the city, a sort of joie de vivre that you see, ironically, when death is right outside the walls, and the end is near.