The captains made no comment. Behind them a Viet Namese sergeant forced his boot heel hard against the foyer floor tiles as if mesmerized by their quality. Beside them the KVM lieutenant from the burial detail ground his teeth.
Mister Pech appeared briefly behind the upper rosewood balustrade. In Viet Namese he called, “Chao Bac.” Hello Uncle. “At last you’ve come to liberate us!” He disappeared, reappeared a moment later on the stairs. A reinforced squad of soldiers entered the house through various doors. “Please”—Mister Pech smiled broadly—“make this building your command center. We’ve room for many. And—the best radios. I’ve arranged with Colonel Le Minh Lam for your units to...”
“Mister Pech,” the Khmer captain stopped the older man. “From your mouth comes buffalo dung.”
“Captain!” Mister Pech barked. He straightened, hardened like a general about to reprimand a subordinate. “Four American divisions are eating ground in this direction. Colonel Le has prepared”—the captain snapped his head to the Khmer Viet Minh lieutenant—“detailed defense plans”—then pointed to Sambath. Immediately the lieutenant raised his carbine. A shot exploded. The old servant stood motionless then began to collapse to one side, his left leg folding neatly three inches above the knee as his body crashed upon the tiles.
“You...” Mister Pech roared. “Colonel L—” From behind, two soldiers grabbed the magnate at his throat choking off the words, pinning his arms. Sambath whimpered.
“The first phase in the destruction of the government”—the Khmer captain spoke as if instructing the lieutenant—“is the destruction of the regime’s local authority. Do this and the central government will be isolated, unable to raise an army, rendered ineffective.” The lieutenant nodded stiffly. “He’s yours,” the Khmer captain said, and he and the NVA captain and their entourages saluted and marched out.
The lieutenant’s face was grim. He closed the exterior foyer doors and then the interior doors to the dining room, the ballroom and the hallway to the rear of the house. He walked to each slowly, moved deliberately, closing off the room with almost grand gestures. As he moved his mind cleared of thought, of feeling. He became pure duty.
“Chao Bac,” the lieutenant mocked Pech Lim Song. He walked to Sambath, whose legs were floating in a pool of blood. The lieutenant stepped over the sticky fluid, kicked the servant’s hip to flatten him on the floor, then stood on the old man so as to raise himself higher than Mister Pech. Sambath coughed. The toes of his left foot lay lifeless beneath his right arm, pointing at the ceiling. “Uncle...” the lieutenant said grimly, darkly, not mocking, not hateful, indifferent. He opened a folder handed him by an aide. “La sale guerre, Mister Pech?”
The two soldiers still held the landlord by the neck and arms. He twisted defiantly attempting to free his head but their strength was greater than his.
“You have blasphemed against Samdech Sihanouk, eh? These are your words: ‘His love for power keeps him corrupt.’ ” The lieutenant paused.
Mister Pech’s mind flashed, terrified. “Why? Why are you with these Viet Namese? They attack a neutral country. Loh Nol has declared a path of neutrality.”
“Humph! Neutral! The Politburo has declared Cambodia an active participant in the war. Thus it is a legal and justifiable target.”
The lieutenant pulled a second sheet from the folder. Mister Pech cringed, silent, settling his thoughts on an exterior bitterness—Why is America dragging its feet? They profess to ally them selves with all who resist tyranny....
“ ‘Sihanouk refuses to carry out land reforms,’ ” the lieutenant read. “Isn’t that a strange contradiction—the land baron damning the Prince? ‘The Viet Namese are two-headed snakes set upon ruling all Kampuchea. What we must fear is their hegemony.’ Your words!” Again the lieutenant raised his carbine. The two soldiers released their hold.
“Wait...”
The lieutenant fired a single round, the bullet smashing Mister Pech’s left knee.
“Hang them outside by the good leg.” The lieutenant’s voice was flat, emotionless. “La sale guerre, eh, Mister Pech?”
CHAPTER NINE
AS THE WAR FOR Cambodia continued its rapid, perverted, escalating transformation, so too did Met Nang’s role change, pervert, rise. Nang did not remain with the recruits he’d led into the forest northwest of Kompong Cham. They were turned over to other Krahom cadre for induction, indoctrination and training at the new schools. No longer were recruits sent to Pong Pay Mountain. The cloaked animosity between the Communist allies, and the now total NVA domination of the Northeast provinces, caused the Krahom leadership to close the School of the Cruel and to open smaller, dispersed, less politically oriented schools in the southwest Cardamom Mountains.
The war became more conventional and Nang became a more conventional soldier—a soldier in a small army which continued to shadow its mentor force like a little brother might follow a big even after the two have fought.
For days, as fighting between NVA and ARVN/US units flared along much of the border and between NVA and FANK forces across the southern coast and deep into the interior, Nang marched southwest, halfway across the nation. There he picked up a platoon of twenty-six newly trained boys, yotheas, and two older, teenage officers. Then Nang, as platoon sergeant, political cadreman and tactician, marched the soldiers north at a murderous pace. He did not make friends, hardly made acquaintances. His friend was the Movement, the organization, the cause. Let the platoon leader and XO make friends, he thought. He’d made friends before. He’d had family before: What had happened to them—to them all? Nang would lead the platoon, could lead them too, because they too were products of Angkar Leou. They marched around Phnom Penh, through the NVA units besieging Kompong Chhnang, led by Met Nang as Met Sar had directed, to the outskirts of Kompong Thom where they rendezvoused with other Krahom elements, where they waited as Nang slipped from them, spied on them and on others, waited to be turned over to the 91st Division of the North Viet Namese Army for whom Nang and his boy-soldiers would serve as runners, insurgents and porters.
Before being placed under the operational control of the NVA’s 91st, Nang’s platoon was chosen to serve as honor guard at a one-day summit meeting of Khmer Krahom, Khmer Viet Minh and NVA officers northeast of Kompong Thom.
Dawn broke. The yotheas, only six of twenty-nine carrying firearms, entered the concealed jungle-swamp headquarters of NVA Colonel Le Duc Tu. Escorting them were four armed, strack, spit-shined and polished North Viet Namese soldiers. With few words the yotheas took up positions around the exterior of the large thatch-roofed hut. Unseen, felt, in camouflaged fighting positions and bunkers on every side, NVA troops stood vigilant, prepared less for battle than for inspection. Nang stood erect though deflated, proud yet sly. Instinctively he sensed every hostile presence as if thoughts produced odors and his nose had been sensitized to the smell.
Le Duc Tu and his entourage arrived at 0800. Met Sar arrived at nine. With him were three men Nang had never seen, yet to whom Met Sar seemingly paid homage. Ten minutes later Hen Samon, regional committee chairman of the Khmer Viet Minh, arrived with a squad-sized escort and four functionaries. The Viet Namese greeted all, embracing the Khmers as if they were hosting the meeting in their own country. An NVA staff photographer snapped a dozen pictures. Then the Viet Namese led the Khmers into the hootch, the meeting hut.
Before entering, Met Sar approached Nang. He did not speak to him, nor did he look at the black-clad boy’s cold eyes, but simply stood near him as if he, Sar, were taking a last deep breath of outside air before entering the building. Without motion Nang uttered lowly, “East—twelve APCs with full contingent of troops. Seventy-nine trucks. South—two to four battalions with two A A batteries attached. West—two batteries of rocket artillery. Eleven trucks. Infantry unknown. North—no report.”
For three hours the Krahom guards stood motionless, silent, taking pride in their endurance and vigilance. For three hours not a voice escaped the hut. Dark t
hunderhead clouds rolled in transforming the clear morning to dull oppressive noon. Colonel Le’s interpreter emerged. Quietly he directed three Viet Namese soldiers to bring food and tea. Politely Nang insisted he be allowed to serve his commanders.
The hut was dim. Four small oil lanterns cast flickering light upon the dozen men seated at two field tables, seated in collapsible chairs; speaking over pinned maps which attempted to recurl. Nang could smell the latent hostility. He poured tea at a small side table, tasted it, served the Krahom personnel.
“The Chinese have sent us sixteen thousand rifles,” the man to Met Sar’s left said. He paused for the Krahom interpreter to translate. “Sixteen thousand,” he repeated. “We’ve received three thousand.”
“Are you certain?” a Viet Namese major asked.
“We must have arms,” the Krahom leader said. “We know there can be difficulties in transit, but we’ve traced the shipments through Laos. We know they reached Prey Angkoal below the Kong Falls. As you have seen, many of our soldiers are armed only with clubs. This is not right.”
“No. No, it isn’t right. But perhaps, Brother”—Hen Samon addressed the Krahom leader without waiting for the interpreters to translate for the Viet Namese—“your yotheas are selling their weapons to the new lackey troops.”
“Bah!” Met Sar cleaned his lips. “You accuse them of what you fear?”
“Please,” Colonel Le said. He held up his hands. “Let’s break to eat.”
“Our information network is the best in Kampuchea,” the man next to Met Sar said. “Our soldiers are dedicated. We have thirteen thousand awaiting weapons. We must have them.”
“You shall,” Colonel Le answered after the interpreter finished.
“When?”
“After lunch.” The colonel smiled. “We will discuss it after lunch.”
The meeting broke. Nang, tiny, deflated, stayed, stood in the dim hootch, in the darkest corner, listening to the men chatter, their disparaging words couched in consoling tones and lavish insincere praise. Like a well-trained butler he stepped forward only when his commander’s cup or dish needed replenishment. Then he melted back against the thatch wall. For two hours the men ate, bantered, spoke of the siege of Kompong Chhnang, the plans for Kompong Thom, the ramifications of the ARVN-American cross-border assaults. Sated, Met Sar belched contentedly. He looked upon Major Huu with admiration. In his soft voice Sar said to the NVA officer, “We should be good friends.”
“Yes,” the major answered.
“I think Lon Nol’s agents try to keep us apart.”
“Most assuredly,” the major said. He smiled as if to himself he were saying, You fat brown fool, you think they want us united?
“Again the regime’s functionaries have approached us,” Met Sar continued, “but, of course, you know that.”
“Yes, we know.” Major Huu smiled.
Sar belched again. “An excellent meal,” he said benignly. Then added, “They’ve offered us amnesty.”
“What good is amnesty from a government that loses one percent of its country every day?”
“Ah, well, that’s true, Major. That’s very true.” Sar smiled softly. He turned very slightly and motioned to Nang for more tea. “The agents certainly can’t be trusted. They carry wood for all sides. They tell us Lon Nol offers us a position in the government in exchange for our support.”
“You’re intrigued, eh?”
“No. No, Major. They are losing very rapidly, though with American support they may hold out a bit longer.”
Into the Viet Namese officer’s voice crept an edge of harshness. “We’ll control Phnom Penh by August,” he said.
Sar swirled the liquid in his handleless cup. He turned, nodded to Nang as if approving the tea he’d been served. Nang inflated as he stepped forward, bulked up as he stood motionless behind Met Sar. “It’s such a shame,” the Krahom general said softly, “to have fine soldiers like Comrade Ky here and not to be able to arm them. President Lon’s agents have offered ten thousand machine guns and have said we’d be allowed to keep our units intact under FANK’s overall control.”
“You are talking to a two-headed snake.” Major Huu smirked.
During the afternoon session the meeting concentrated on specific ways the three Communist factions could cooperate with one another. Every delegate bent to extremes of false cordiality, each playing for time, committing as little as possible, attempting to gamer concessions and commitments from the others, ostensibly carving the region into three zones.
Moments before they dispersed Met Sar stuttered, “Ah...as...as to the rifles...”
“Yes, the rifles...” Colonel Le nodded. “We shall send you word about the delay.”
“Quickly,” Met Sar whispered to Nang. Again they were on the march. The meeting had dissolved as it had begun, with photographs snapped of diplomatic embraces as the North Viet Namese sealed off their perimeter and the Khmer factions withdrew in opposite directions. Accompanied by his old teacher, Nang marched his platoon southeast, toward the heart of the city they would soon attack. As they scurried along secret jungle-swamp trails led by a local Krahom guide, Met Sar quietly vented his spleen.
“Now the people will hear us.” He spoke softly in his convictions, rationally in his pious arguments, ruthlessly in his righteousness. “You are my brother in the Brotherhood of the Pure, Met Nang. You have been purified in fire. This battle will require you to swallow your pride and endure utter privation. But if you are pure you will carry us through. Tell the platoon Angkar Leou wishes all to construct themselves in the pure and proper mold. We are the sole legitimate leaders of the Khmer people. All others trespass against us. All trespassers are aliens. All aliens are enemies. If we are pure all enemies will fall to our sword, and their remains will be the compost from which a thousand-year dynasty will blossom!
“For the good of Kampuchea, Nang, we must struggle to excise that which is infected, to destroy the regime and liberate Kampuchea from the imperialists, the yuons and all the puppets who draw nourishment from them like ignorant calves from the teats of a golden cow. Americans storm the border, bomb every square meter. The ARVN loots, pillages and rapes. Expect them. Expect their bombs.” Met Sar paused in speech though continued his quick pace. He glanced from the corner of his eye at his trusted yothea, measured him, measured the impact of his words. Then he thought, Let the yuon soldiers topple Phnom Penh. Be one pace behind. In the moments between the military collapse and the shift of political power, step in, eliminate the yuon lackeys, substitute Krahom officers. It was a good scenario, a long shot, but one that could be played with minimum risk and run concurrently with other, more staid strategies.
“This invasion brings me sorrow and it brings me hope,” Sar said. “Presidents Nixon and Thieu have given their armies permission to occupy Khmer lands, to kill our children. Every Khmer is horrified. Every intellectual, every young person, every citizen who takes any pride in the nation is nauseated by this odious invasion.
“Yet more terrifying is the speed with which the yuon thrust topples the country. It must be halted. Fight beside them, behind them, but fight like a wounded soldier. Make them carry you. Let the Americans bomb their camps and convoys. If two spears are thrown at you, one behind the other, you must sidestep the first before you can deflect the second. It is kaul chomhor, a guiding principle, of Angkar Leou. Rebuild and replenish our forces with the arms and the yotheas we take from our enemies.”
Sullivan was hung over. His eyes would barely focus. Still he stared at the reports, at the newspapers strewn about his cot in the sleeping bunker of the teamhouse. He stared and he knew, thought he knew, the reality behind the words, the reality he projected behind the wall of present time.
By 4 May the US/ARVN incursion into the Fishhook area of Cambodia was paying off. As NVA supply units withdrew in chaos, U.S. forces advanced along Highway 13 to the outskirts of Snuol in Kratie Province—an area long controlled by the NVA, the city itself having recently f
allen to total, undisguised Communist control. North Viet Namese gunners, the after-action report said, had opened up on U.S. 11th Cavalry troops as they neared the town’s airstrip. Almost immediately additional enemy fire—mortars, small arms, automatic rifle and rockets—had come from the town. For two days U.S. bombers and artillery pounded the town, reducing it to rubble. When American troops finally entered the devastated area they found no wounded or dead. The military commander concluded that all had been carried away—instead of postulating, Sullivan thought, that all had escaped via deep subterranean passages. Free world press reports labeled the seizure of the town an atrocity, reporting the story as if the town were a civilian bastion surrounded by enemy troops in turn surrounded by Allied troops. It did not help when the American commander said, “We had to destroy it in order to save it.”
“...in order to save it,” Sullivan muttered. “Real goddamned horror of Snuol is when the NVA seized the town in March, the goddamned two thousand civilians—who worked for em without choice, for the goddamned NTA, were pressed into deeper service or driven from the border area. Why don’t they report that? They were part of the wave of refugees that inundated us. Damned papers have a memory about eighteen hours long. They coulda asked me. Atrocity! Goddamned Allied atrocity of Snuol was our complete acceptance, complete dependence upon artillery and bombing as the means of subduing an enemy force in a town. That’s the atrocity. Even if there wasn’t a fuckin’ livin’ soul in the place.”
Sullivan shoved the report away, picked up the newspaper. On the campus of Kent State University, in Ohio, National Guardsmen, confronted by a jeering mass of students, had fired into the crowd killing four and wounding eleven. “Augh,” Sullivan moaned. He studied the accompanying picture, the girl’s face in the photo, her pain. He projected an ambiguous image into time beyond the present. “This sucker,” he whispered, “this is the decisive battle.”
For the Sake of All Living Things Page 34
