For the Sake of All Living Things

by John M. Del Vecchio

  After a brief rest Chhuon rose, as he did each night, cringed, as he did each night, the pain in his knees and back rifling across his face. “And now,” he said, “a bowl of rice for Kdeb. His spirit needs sustenance. I feel it. His spirit wanders.”

  “We should go,” Sok said quietly. “Today I heard...”

  “We can’t go,” Chhuon snapped. “How can we go? Kdeb’s spirit...” He shuddered, twisted, a spasm of pain seizing his side.

  Sok gave him a small rice bowl for the altar. “We received word today...” she began, but Chhuon interrupted her again.

  “What do you put in my tea?” His eyes darted to her then away. He put a hand to his breastbone. “I’m burning up.”

  “Your passions are too hot,” his mother said firmly. “The heat rises to your mouth.”

  “It’s the damned yuons that rise to my mouth,” Chhuon cursed bitterly. “The damned yuons who are...are...killing me.”

  Chhuon placed a small bowl on the altar and lit two incense sticks for Samnang. He tapped a heavy finger on the tabletop. Tapped it seven, eight, ten times. “Blood for blood!” he murmured. He turned, scowled, his face tightened, transformed to a mask. Sok rocked back, aghast. “Blood for blood!” Chhuon repeated louder.

  “Vathana sent word...” Sok interjected. She knew it was the one name which could break his deepening trance.

  “Yes?” Harsh, questioning.

  A slight smile curled Sok’s lips. “You’re going to be a grandfather.”

  For a week Nang sat in a whitewashed cave awaiting debriefing. His trip south had not been easy. In the far north of Laos he’d been stranded for weeks when the NVA and Pathet Lao suddenly switched their effort from moving men and materiel south and diverted all their resources to the battle of the Plain of Jars. Despite heavy American air strikes and torrential monsoons the NVA offensive seized the government stronghold at Muong Soui on the western edge of the plateau. In rear areas Nang had listened to reports from soldiers returning from the front. They’d bragged of savage fighting, of victory, of pushing west and cutting Highway 13, of how they were now in striking distance of Vientiane and Luang Prabang.

  The tales made Nang itch to be part of a battle, any battle. He’d questioned them with the little Viet Namese he’d learned. How stupid they are, he’d thought. In youthful enthusiasm and naïveté he was certain he could do better. Had they better coordinated their infantry and artillery, they would have been even more successful. Had they used less explosive at each point but doubled the attack points...Oh, he’d thought, to be part of the great victory!

  With the itch to fight strong, he’d picked his way down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. In southeastern Laos the trail bombings were so heavy they all but closed the route. Twice Nang was caught in areas adjacent to B-52 bomb boxes. As the ground trembled, fear, awe, vengeance had heightened his resolve. Now, too, there were rumors of American bombings of NVA sanctuaries in his country. To be there, he’d thought, to see yuons slaughtered, then to butcher the hairy American savages.

  Nang had marched west, with a transportation unit, across the Bolovens Plateau below Saravanto the Mekong. At the river soldiers cut trees, fashioned crude rafts, stacked and tied crates of arms and ammunition, distributing the weight so the craft would have a chance in the rapids. At night rafts were released, unmanned, left to float to the Khong Falls at the border where other units would catch them, unload them, porter the goods around the falls. Then the materiel would be trucked, unmolested, 110 kilometers south to Kratie for further distribution.

  Nang had jumped a raft. At Ban Mai a reconnaissance aircraft spotted him, radioed for clearance to fire. He’d slithered between crates, trying to hide. The aircraft flew off. Unknown to Nang, the next day, after eleven hours of seeking clearance, a second U.S. F-4 Phantom fighter-bomber searched the river, but by then Nang had reached Cambodia.

  In Cambodia, the Krahom network aided by Khmer Viet Minh transport units expedited Nang’s trip past Stung Treng, Kratie and Kompong Cham, through the outskirts of Phnom Penh, to Kompong Speu. There he waited in the whitewashed cave. Only the most trusted Krahom yotheas and cadre knew how to proceed to Krahom headquarters at Peam Amleang.

  In the 1950s the KK established a secret regional headquarters in the craggy pocket on Mount Aural, Cambodia’s highest peak—primary headquarters were in Phnom Penh. In 1963 the primary unit was shifted to the southeast where it coexisted with Viet Cong offices. In 1966 it was moved to Pong Pay Mountain, adjacent to the training school, and was known as the Central Committee at Ratanakiri. As tension between the Krahom and NVA/KVM mounted, the Central Committee headquarters was moved to the old southwest regional site. By 1969 Peam Amleang was a deep-tunneled, camouflaged complex from which the Khmer Krahom military and political hierarchy, the Center, directed the revolution.

  Met Sar had been promoted to general. “You shall be my eyes where my eyes cannot see,” he said quietly. “You shall be my ears where my ears cannot hear; my feet where my feet dare not walk.” A fine mist filled the early-morning mountain air. Nang had been brought up the mountain blindfolded, had been grilled by senior cadremen about the People’s Liberation Army School for a week. Met Sar had briefly questioned him and a thin man named Nim had explained to him what had occurred in his absence.

  “We no longer call ourselves the Movement,” Nim had said. “We’ve adopted the name Angkar Leou so as not to be coupled with the Communists.” Nim’s voice was machinelike. “We can be more effective this way. Let them think we’re Viet Minh. Or yuon. Or bandits. We’ve attacked in all nineteen provinces since the New Year but the yuons carry the brunt of battle. They die. We grow strong. Let it be.”

  “And the Royal forces?” Nang had asked.

  “The Prince,” Met Nim had said sarcastically, “is angry. The yuons have detached Ratanakiri. He’s ordered his army to have an offensive spirit. Ha! An offensive spirit. Isn’t that a joke? Not to go on the offensive but...”

  “That’s not the problem, Nim,” the firm gentle voice of Met Sar had interrupted, and Nang had snapped erect.

  “Oh! No. No, it’s not,” Nim had stuttered.

  “Norodom Sihanouk has reestablished relations with coldblooded imperialist aggressors,” Met Sar had said. He’d read from a French newspaper quoting the Prince. “ ‘...the Asian Communists are already attacking us before the end of the Viet Nam War.’ This is a serious development.” Met Sar had paced back and forth. Agitation crept into his tone. “Yuons move ever greater numbers into the interior,” he said. “Americans bomb sanctuaries along the eastern border. As long as that’s secret, the Prince approves. Augh! He too wants the NVA gone. But Hanoi...if they can break the secrecy...this is a nightmare! American escalation presages ground-force intervention. That”—Met Sar had slapped a wall map—“that must be avoided. At the same time, the NVA must be driven out! We need a greater presence in the East. We need spies, scouts. We need greater intelligence.”

  “Met Sar,” Nim had addressed the new general, “why not allow them to murder each other?”

  “Let them murder each other in Viet Nam,” Sar had grumbled. He’d grabbed his chin, slid his fingers down to his neck. “Hold no illusions,” he had said. “A full-scale fight with the Americans will extend the war for years.” Sar had shaken his head. “Keep them out. We must drive the yuons out...and we must keep out the Americans.”

  Nang had risen. “Met Sar,” he’d said, “allow me to recon the front.”

  Sar had studied the boy. “Our people are blank posters,” Sar had said quietly. “There will be but one chance to paint their future.” Then he’d left. In a deep pensive mood he’d brooded for days while Nang and the cadre languished.

  On 20 May, Sar called for Nang. They sat outdoors, under a canopy of woven branches and vines. “You shall be my eyes where my eyes cannot see,” Sar repeated. “My ears...my feet. Met Nang, you shall walk all Kampuchea.”

  Nang looked at Sar, his mentor, his tutor, his guide and sponsor through t
he political and bureaucratic morass of the growing Movement. Nang’s face lit, keen, infectious, bright-eyed. This man, he thought, this one man is the only man on earth I need to please. “I’m prepared for any sacrifice,” he said pleasantly. “I wish only to be of service to the People.”

  “Good.” Met Sar delicately peeled a banana, ate it. The chairs and table of the canopied-office were exquisitely crafted, the ground covered with bamboo mats woven in intricate patterns. Walkways to and from the office were made of bamboo tubes laid perpendicular to the path. Drainage was perfect; even in the heaviest monsoon deluge the feet of general staff officers never got wet.

  From their seats Sar and Nang could see the valley below—the low south filled with white clouds, the middle thick with forest, the north end closing and running toward a great peak. A porter brought more tea and a bowl of fresh fruit then disappeared down a walkway into an underground cavern.

  “Good,” Met Sar repeated. “Once the country is organized you shall have a well-deserved position.”

  Nang puffed his chest like a bird.

  “I have determined,” the older man said, “that we can slice up or club to death those who need to be eliminated. Did not your friend Bok Roh do this?” Sar laughed as if he had told a great joke.

  “My friend!” Nang was astonished by the officer’s words.

  “You remember.” Sar laughed. “You told me all about him your first day at Pong Pay. He’s now your friend, eh?”

  “My friend!” Nang repeated. He felt Sar’s power, the power of information, the power of knowing another’s secrets. He hated Sar for his power, yet he admired him, wanted to emulate his every stratagem.

  “Bok Roh...” Sar laughed. His eyes were riveted on Nang, gauging Nang’s response. “Do you know where to look for him?”

  “No.” Nang’s voice was flat.

  “He is not a soldier, you know.” Nang did not speak. “He’s a tool.” Sar laughed. He sensed Nang’s tension. “They use him,” Sar said. “He’s very smart but he’s only a smart tool. Your story of him was not the first. Do you wish to get him?”

  “I wish only to serve.” Nang lowered his eyes to mask his emotions.

  “Ha!” Sar blurted. “It doesn’t matter. We will not rely on tools, or supplies, from anyone,” he said. “It is the will of Angkar Leou. Victory to the Brotherhood of the Pure.”

  “Victory,” Nang repeated.

  Again Met Sar said, “You shall be my eyes...my ears...my feet....You shall walk the entire country. Report to me what you see, all you hear. That shall be your mission. You have been trained to collect intelligence. You are an agent for the Center. We must know all.”

  Nang’s face lit, his eyes glistened.

  “Sihanouk is stirring about Chinese supplies entering at Sihanoukville. Go there first. See what is happening. Make your report. Then find the sanctuaries. And if you find Bok Roh...study him, eh? He may yet be helpful to us. But, Met Nang, don’t concentrate on just tools. Tell me, too, what the Americans are doing.”

  The main road of Neak Luong was a bustle of activity when Chhuon arrived. Cars, trucks, buses and motorcycles vied with bicycles and buffalo-drawn carts for rain-drenched space along riverside quays or land-side construction sites. Old, traditional wood-and-bamboo stilt houses were being replaced by structures of brick, block and mortar. The river, too, was crowded: tugs, barges and large river freighters dwarfed small fishing boats and sampans. Jacaranda trees, thick with clusters of blue-purple flowers, seemed sad, trapped between machines and concrete beneath the leaden sky.

  Chhuon walked hesitantly. He was eager yet timid. He had come to Neak Luong with Cheam, the latter to see Pech Lim Song on business, Chhuon to see his daughter. Outside the four-story apartment building he stopped. He lit a cigarette, inhaled, blew the smoke before him and rebreathed the cloud. A young man, his head down in the rain, bumped Chhuon. As he stepped around, he looked up at the man in rural dress and said, “Excuse me, Grandfather.”

  Chhuon smiled and bowed as the young man marched on. Grandfather, he thought. Yes. Soon. Pretty soon. Six months. Six months I haven’t seen her. How she’ll have changed.

  “Un moment,” Vathana called in French when Chhuon knocked. He could hear her talking on the telephone, all in French, about shipping schedules. Her voice sounded harried.

  Chhuon let himself in. The apartment was impeccably decorated. Without the wedding crowd it was spacious. Chhuon stood by the door. Vathana sat at a delicate mahogany desk in what had been intended as a dining el but was now her office. Beside her were open file carriages, before her an open folder. She did not turn around but continued insisting that the price of something was much too high. Chhuon glanced into the kitchen. A radio was on the refrigerator. He looked through the doorway into the bedroom. There was a television set on a small stand by an immense Western-style bed. In the living room, on a rosewood table, there was a closed photo album. Chhuon turned back to Vathana. Above her desk was the large framed picture of Norodom Sihanouk Cheam had given as a wedding present. His eyes swept the room. Vaguely he approved the large photo, admired the well-organized desk and files, yet he felt much of the furnishings were material triviality. He glanced at the closed photo album then raised his eyes to his daughter’s back. How beautiful, he thought. Then, She doesn’t look pregnant. Then, Her hair is black as monsoon clouds. Finally, Still she wears the white dress of mourning. That pleased him. Others may have forgotten Samnang and Mayana but not Vathana. He watched, now with pleasure, as she pulled the Buddha statuette from her bodice and rubbed it between her thumb and fingers. It amused him that she had exchanged the cotton cord for a gold chain.

  Vathana argued on. Chhuon stood by the door like a delivery boy waiting to be acknowledged by an important feudal lord. “Oui. Oui. Adieu.” She closed the phone, turned and gasped. “Papa! I thought it was Teck.”

  “You are in good health?” Chhuon smiled broadly.

  Vathana launched into an excited prattle of greeting and reacquaintance, as if she hadn’t talked to anyone in months. As she chatted she prepared a buffet for her father who barely got in a word. She spoke French at first, a habit she’d fallen into in Neak Luong, but soon she switched to a beautiful Khmer full of sound redundancies which pleased Chhuon immensely. Finally she ran down. She hung her head low and whispered, “I’m pregnant.”

  Chhuon reacted to her tone. “But that’s wonderful.” His eyes sparkled as they had not since early August. “Your mother will come and stay to help.”

  “Papa,” Vathana whispered. She pulled the statuette and massaged it. “I’m so afraid.” It was difficult for her. Traditional belief held it unhealthy for a pregnant woman to talk of her worries. “I’m so vulnerable, but how can I stop this work?”

  “Your uncle tells me you’re the best businesswoman on the river,” Chhuon said. It was an attempt to reassure her but also to divert the conversation from fears Chhuon himself did not know how to handle. “Better than all the men,” he said. “Cheam says you’re the only one who doesn’t lie.”

  “Buddha forbids one to use words to conceal the truth,” she said quietly. “But to be pregnant and to work. I’m so vulnerable to spirits. What if something should happen to the baby?”

  “And Teck?” Chhuon’s words hardened.

  “He says he’s an Epicurean.”

  “He’s what?”

  “His only concern is his own happiness.”

  “He...” Chhuon clenched his fists. “...he cannot be that...that....His father...”

  “Mister Pech is wonderful. I’ve learned so much. Especially who must be paid.”

  “Does his mother help?”

  “She’s like Lady Monique Sihanouk,” Vathana said, an odd smile on her face.

  “She’s good to you?”

  “She bought all the furniture. She buys Teck’s clothes. She shops every day...in Phnom Penh. She won’t live here. And she doesn’t approve of my running the company.”

  “Vathana”—Chhuon
addressed her as an adult—“you must pay someone to ship, yes? Like I paid road donations?” Vathana nodded and Chhuon added bitterly, “Don’t pay the yuons. Even five hundred riels is too much.”

  “Five hundred!? Papa! Try five hundred thousand in three months.”

  “Five hundred thous...”

  “Yes. And if I change from exporting rice to moving palm oil it will cost more. It will cost a large bonjour just to acquire the tanks. But there’s more money in palm oil than in rice.”

  “You sound like Mister Pech,” Chhuon said. A sharpness crept into his voice. “Does he tell you how to think about yuons?”

  “Every day the radio’s full of reports,” Vathana said. “Every day Samdech Euv has new activities to report but his talk is so general, unless you have family or workers in those areas...”

  “Does he say what is happening to the Northeast? Do the people cringe? Are they as infuriated as I am?”

  “Papa,” Vathana said carefully, “no one cringes. No one knows. There are bombings in the East but no one seems to care. If you tell them, they don’t believe you. I tell them I come from the Northeast and every day more of the country is lost. They look at me as if I were from another world. They say, ‘Rice is fifteen percent more than last year. You merchants cheat us.’ ”

  “They don’t know?!” Chhuon was aghast.

  “They don’t want to know,” Vathana said. “They’re mostly like Teck. Teck says the war will soon end. He says it’ll never reach here.” She paused. She felt she’d said too much, revealed, too much about her husband, her mother-in-law and her new city. She sensed that her father was very hurt. “But...but Papa, you haven’t told me how you are. Uncle Cheam says you work the paddies with Cousin Sam.”

  Chhuon dropped his face. His complexion seemed to pale before Vathana’s eyes. “I no longer know the right way to live,” Chhuon said. He might have said, “I fear I’m crazy,” for in Khmer society the loss of way was considered borderline insanity. “Some days my body is like a stranger to me,” he confessed. “On those days I work very hard so the pain will be very bad and I’ll know that...” He stopped, looked up. Vathana’s eyes were tearing. I could tell her of the dream I had the night before the trip. He shook his head. “I feel like our family is no longer connected. Alone we have no meaning.”