For the Sake of All Living Things

by John M. Del Vecchio

  “who?”

  “a deputy commissar from the A40 office.”

  “we’ll eliminate him.”

  “no. let him come.”

  “yes?”

  “yes.” Chhuon’s words were quick, excited, hushed, “the more they bring to integrate, the more they sow the seeds of their own downfall, the people will not resist until their sentiment is raised to embrace the resistance, let them come, they are the army’s weakness.”

  Behind Kpa, in the shadows, three boys huddled. One shivered. Chhuon could hear his teeth chatter.

  “we need medicine,” Kpa said.

  “there’s very little, they count every aspirin, every capsule is dispensed as if gold.”

  “sakhon has the fever, we can’t treat him. capture him. let them treat him.”

  “no. take him back, the only kindness they’ll show him is a quick trip to the ancestors, find a way. you must learn to be self-sufficient, find the khrou. he’ll tell you which leaves or bark to boil, the deputy commissar, track him. allow him to come and go. big movements are coming.”

  “we see the buildup, many trucks from laos. many large stockpiles, many soldiers.”

  “kpa, i know, i know this, they’ve new orders, they’ll move soon.”

  “where?”

  “west, south, baray. the 32d and 33d regiments have joined the 7th division, they’re to cut the north from phnom penh.”

  “major nui told you?”

  “i saw his map. my brother had a friend, a republican. colonel chlay. get him word.”

  “we can send word to baray. to kompong thom...”

  “send it. i must go. kpa...”

  “yes uncle?”

  “knock out the AA radar.”

  Chhuon tilted his head back. “Vo! Vo! Vo! Vo!” Colonel Nui, Hang Tung, Cadreman Trinh, Trinh Le and Colonel Hans Mitterschmidt chanted loudly in a rhythmic beat. “Vo! Vo! Vo! Vo!” The whiskey burned in Chhuon’s mouth. He let bubbles gurgle upward through the dark liquid as the others watched delightedly. “Vo! Vo! Vo!” Blup blup blup. Whiskey burned his throat though he kept most of it in his mouth, his jowls expanding like a water balloon. Hang Tung burst into laughter, clapped wildly. Others rolled forward, their laughter uninhibited, loosened by the whiskey, truly joyful. Chhuon lowered the bottle, spitting as much liquor back into it as he could unnoticed. He swallowed hard. The fumes in his mouth filled his nose, made his eyes water. Even his ears felt hot. Trinh Le accepted the bottle, tilted it up, voraciously sucked down whiskey and spittle to new chanting until all applauded and laughed and the bottle passed to the East German. Colonel Mitterschmidt held the bottle at arm’s length. To his comrades he was a huge man and he’d demonstrated with the first bottle a wonderful capacity to drink. “Vo! Vo! Vo! Vo!”

  “To win,” Mitterschmidt said in his own tongue and Colonel Nui translated into Viet Namese, “you need not be perfect; only better than the enemy.” He drank to a quieter chant, chugging the remainder as Colonel Nui translated happily.

  Before Nui finished the line, laughter burst from him. “Ha!...only better...Ha! We’re better than Germans.” He laughed.

  Mitterschmidt reached over to Nui, put a strong arm about the smaller colonel and squeezed him like a little brother. “You fight hard.” His sincere admiration was tinged with melancholy. “You’ll win. Never has an army, except perhaps the Germans in Russia, faced such hardship with such commitment. Hardship means nothing to you. So committed! Your enemy is criminal, yet you fight. Americans have the most ferocious weapons, yet you fight. They are the crudest nation on earth. Still you fight. And win!”

  Nui gestured across the table to Chhuon who had not understood the German. “For this man,” Nui said first in Viet Namese and then in German. He smiled broadly. “Viet Namese blood and Viet Namese bones will build solidarity in a sovereign Indochina.”

  “You face a strong ARVN, a growing FANK, the South

  Koreans and the Americans—Still!” Mitterschmidt was drunk. He had not heard a word Nui had said.

  “Respected Colonel.” Cadreman Trinh chuckled after Nui translated. “There is no strength without the Americans. ARVN, FANK, they are balloons. When America withdraws, the lackeys will go pa-fa-fa-fa-fa like a child’s untied balloon.”

  Nui translated again, then rose. As he did Mitterschmidt pulled from his breast pocket a small plastic-coated photograph of two young blond boys. He handed it to Cadreman Trinh. “This”—he pointed to the older boy—“is Hans. Like me. This is Dieter. Next year I’ll show them your picture. Ha!”

  Nui unbuttoned his blouse and pulled it open, exposing a yellow, red, green and black tattoo, a snarling S-shaped dragon in the shape of the combined Viet Nams. Over Nui’s heart was a column of characters. He tapped them. “Born in the North to die in the South.” Nui laughed. Chhuon laughed and clapped and beamed his actor’s mask. Another bottle emerged and Hang Tung drank to “Vo! Vo! Vo! Vo!” Chhuon drank to a new chant, a slogan, “Free our enslaved comrades in Kampuchea and in the South.” Trinh drank to “Liberation! Our solemn mission!” The bottle made a full round and a second, and on the third Mitterschmidt killed it.

  “I have seen the pictures,” Nui said to Mitterschmidt. “The Americans are like the old Gestapo before Germany was liberated. Their MPs beat people. Always! Everyone! The poor people of Saigon are bui doi—how to say it? They are dust. Orphans. The Americans stick the girls then throw them on the street and run them down with their trucks. When we bring the communal state, they will have the most beautiful lives. Americans, humph! They treat their dogs better than their wives. Ech! Ha! But in Laos, ha! they ran like beaten dogs with their tails stuck in their asses. What a disgrace. They should not be called soldiers. I am a soldier. We fight them. Danh cho den cuoi! Fight to the finish! They are...sadists. Yes? Sadists. Beat women! Torture children! Ah, but the glorious victories of the People’s Liberation Army makes them withdraw. That, Colonel, is why we fight. It is chinh nghia. You say it. Chinh nghia!”

  “Chin na! Ha! Ha! What do I say?”

  “It is a just cause. ‘Just Cause!’ You will see when you observe at Baray.”

  Chhuon stumbled toward home, drunk. He had not been able to spit all the liquor back, had drunk enough to make him intoxicated. He fell as he reached the main village street, pulled himself to his hands and knees, then collapsed. Lying there he thought, I didn’t ask Kpa if there was word of Cheam. Poor Cheam. I didn’t tell Kpa of mother. Better. Better not for him to worry for her health. What’s happening to my country? To my blood! Kampuchea, you bleed like a butchered pig. And I lie in the mud. Blood for Kampuchea. Nui! Humph! Viet blood and Viet bones build...Chhuon belched. Heat from his stomach billowed like a fanned forge fire. He worked his knees back under him. Lifted his torso. His head seemed to swirl. He vomited. Blood for blood; he thought. Blood for blood. Aloud he muttered, “I shall become enlightened for the sake of all living things. I shall become...”

  “You knew we watched you,” Eng said.

  “I knew.” Nang smiled. “But with my new face you didn’t know who I was.”

  “Sar thought you’d been killed. He was pissed.”

  “It gave me more room to maneuver,” Nang said. He spoke almost apologetically, sheepishly, though there was no apology or humbleness in him.

  They squatted in the shade of a lemon tree in the tiny courtyard of a Kompong Thom peasant home. The sun beat down upon the land with a wilting intensity achieved only during the little dry season, the midsummer break in the wet weather, beat down vaporizing all surface moisture and filling the air with oppressive humidity. Nang flipped to the last page of the document Eng had given him. Through Eng, he had reestablished contact with Angkar, the Center, Met Sar. “ ‘To be master of the country and master of the revolution,’ ” Nang read, “ ‘is to be engaged in a determined struggle for self-sufficiency and to show a spirit of creativity...’ ” In his mind Nang was once again under the older man’s guidance, though in reality he was now but a mi
dlevel cadreman subordinate to the leaders of the northern zone. “ ‘...it is to endure all hardships, to be conscientious, thrifty and upright. This also means to show respect for freely accepted discipline....’ ”

  “I was sure it was you all along,” Eng interrupted. “Night Rabbit, Little Rabbit. You’ve got a thing for rabbits. Ha!”

  “Did he send you to spy on me?”

  “No. He sent me with orders, guidelines. We must maintain absolute internal unity. You cannot operate alone. Soth and Horl from the old platoon will join you. Angkar is to have a presence in every village. In every way we are to gain the people. And the yuon drive must falter in open country.”

  Nang laughed, did not answer, but continued reading to the end of the document. “ ‘...to love, defend, and respect the people. Finally, it means turning humbly to the people to learn, and sacrificing all to the interest of the nation and the revolution.’ ‘”

  “We need a real base,” Eng said. By mid-August 1971, Krahom intelligence had disseminated, along with the new documents, tactical information about the advancing North Viet Namese divisions. Krahom double agents had also informed FANK intelligence; FANK agents had confirmed the direction and size of the thrust via ARVN and American aerial reconnaissance. “It’s Met Sar’s orders,” Eng said.

  “The NVA 91st is moving south,” Nang said. “You know that, eh?” His eyes hardened. Soth, eh? he thought.

  “The 5th, 7th and 91st. Who tells you? What do you know?”

  “A ghost in the wind tells me.” Nang’s eyes twinkled. “Lon Nol has announced the launching of his operation, Chenla II, a ‘sweep’ north to secure the corridor to Kompong Thom, to expel all foreigners and Communists. A real base, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we should take Phum Voa Yeav. I have friends there.”

  “I don’t know it,” Eng said.

  “It’s eight kilometers north. It’ll be perfect and it’s well prepared. What is this Chenla II?”

  “Like last year.” Eng shook his head thinking of FANK’s miserable effort. “They’ve formed a column north of Phnom Penh near Skoun. But, like last year, they move like snails.”

  “This is a great opportunity,” Nang said. “We’ll fight for our lives as only you and I can, Eng.” Nang stood. Though the heat was debilitating, he felt strong. He felt as if he’d been toying with weak opponents, as if he’d been sitting back, waiting for an opening, waiting until now. “Gather the class,” he said. “It’s time.”

  North Viet Namese and Khmer Viet Minh control over Phum Voa Yeav was minimal. The four small hamlets harbored Khmer Viet Minh agents and militia squads but because of the proximity to Kompong Thom there had not been a complete break from Republic control. Like many South Viet Namese villages five years earlier, the Communist infrastructure, backed by main force units in outlying areas, was a nocturnal government. The national government’s presence took the form of infrequent daytime troop patrols, daylight administration.

  “The hamlet is well prepared,” Met Han told Nang and Eng the next day. The two cadremen had joined the young fighter and his small band in a hut in a treeline between paddies just east of Voa Yeav 3. “Eighty percent of the people support our movement.”

  Eng smiled. He turned to Nang. “How many camps do you have like this?”

  “Many.” Nang avoided Eng’s question. “Most have moved away from the corrupting influences of the city. Every hamlet has been assigned a squad.”

  “And eighty percent of the people are with you?!”

  “Understand, Eng,” Nang said quietly, “eight in ten are with every faction. Rice farmers are pragmatic, eh? If we win, they’re with us, eh, Met Han?”

  “They really are with us, Met Nang. It’s been exactly as you’ve said. When we first came we told them we were the Movement and we’d come to help. They didn’t believe. We helped them repair broken dikes and they began to listen. We told them we were against all aliens. We planted rice with them and they listened more. We told them, as you’ve told us, it is our obligation as Khmers to protect Khmers.”

  Nang smiled. “Don’t believe too easily,” he said. “Lon Nol’s henchmen say eight in ten are with him. Comrade Ote Samrin who is KVM, who has the NVA 91st behind him, reports eight in ten are Rumdoah and wish the yuons to win and return Sihanouk.”

  “Met Nang,” Han said sincerely, “we’ve worked very hard with the farmers. We’ve served them and treated them with respect. They’ll stand with us.”

  “Today”—Nang’s voice was filled with doubt—“perhaps.”

  “Truly,” Han retorted.

  “Truly?” Nang raised his brow.

  “Yes.”

  “Will they, in return, assist us?”

  “Of course. Haven’t they kept track of the yuon 91st as we asked? Weren’t they the first to note the shift south? They’ll help us.”

  “Good.” Nang became very still, very calm. His head was bowed. Then he raised it and looked directly into Han’s eyes. “In one hour they’ll set up a diversion.”

  Two hours later Nang stood with Han and a hamlet elder at the gate to Voa Yeav 3. Han had introduced Nang as his teacher and the old man was both much amused by the idea of one so young being a teacher and much shocked by the terrible disfigurement of Nang’s face. The rains had begun again, not the deluge which would come in a week but a clinging drizzle. Han held a large banana leaf over the old man as Nang spoke of the need for national sovereignty. Again the old man was amused. He invited the boys to his home for rice, but Nang insisted they remain on the road by the village gate.

  “The village chief comes now, eh?” Nang spoke in perfect rural northern dialect.

  “If he’s not drunk.” The old man laughed.

  “And with him the province tax collector?” Nang said.

  “Snakes bed together, eh, Rabbit?” The old man chuckled. “You are very young to want to see them.”

  “Anyone who harms you, who harms your crops, your people or your belongings, he is your enemy.” As Nang said the words an odd feeling descended upon him, coated him as the drizzle coated his skin.

  “You are very wise for one so young.” The man smiled broadly.

  “This chief,” Nang said, “he serves the Viet Namese and the governor, eh? And he drinks alcohol? He is very evil, eh?”

  “He is always drunk.” The elder laughed.

  “My father, who is now with Lord Buddha, used to say of drunks, ‘The way they act is to renounce their humanity.’ You will help Han change this man, eh?”

  “I’m a poor man.” The elder giggled. “I must support my family.”

  “We’ll change that,” Nang said. “All Khmers should share in the country’s wealth. We’ll change the village chief, too, eh? You help me, eh?”

  The elder became more formal. “For many years the peasants want to change this man. Ote Samrin wants him to change, too. If you change him, how will Ote Samrin look? How will I look to my people?”

  “Ote Samrin is humiliated because he has no effect. You shall be honored because you are with us. Look there.” Nang pointed into the gray drizzle where two vehicles were emerging. “For all eternity—” Nang began. Suddenly the lead vehicle blasted its horn. Three water buffalo had climbed, had been driven, from one paddy up the dike to the raised gravel road. The lead vehicle’s horn blared in repeated bursts. Two small boys whipped the buffalos with marsh reed switches. Nang laughed and Han and the old man joined in. The horns of both cars honked. The lead driver hung his head out the window, screamed at the urchins to clear their beasts from his path. The two boys ran into the paddy. “For all eternity...” Nang laughed loudly. Behind them on the hamlet street a dozen women had converged to witness the commotion and in the paddies the peasants straightened their backs. Suddenly a massive fireball tossed the rear vehicle into the air, then the noise and concussion slammed the viewers. Doors of the lead vehicle sprang open. Five armed men emerged running, clutching their weapons, running, collapsing to a fusillade
unheard at the hamlet gate. Then the distant report of small arms fire reached the elder. Nang completed his sentence in an embittered tone, “...our blood will call for revenge.”

  The old man no longer smiled. A large mob had grown in the hamlet street. Han stood shocked. His boys had delivered a diversion but neither they nor he had known for what. Nang turned to the mob. He grasped the trembling hand of the old man beside him, lifted it, held it high, then yelled as loudly and as enthusiastically as his voice would stretch, “From henceforth and for all eternity Phum Voa Yeav shall be protected by the Organization. By Angkar. Never again shall you pay taxes to the henchmen of Lon Nol or the lackeys of the yuons.”

  From the fields about the wreckage of the cars two squads emerged; emerged like wraiths from a fog, emerged, walked, fourteen armed black-clad boys in single file, down the dike road toward Phum Voa Yeav.

  The preparation for the takeover of Phum Voa Yeav had been complete enough that, in the absence of NVA support, before night had fallen twice all four hamlets and the village center had been subjugated by Krahom soldiers. Immediately the fence sitters acquiesced to the slogan, “Independence, national sovereignty, self-reliance and revolutionary violence.” Within another day Phum Voa Yeav had fallen under the spell of Wise Little Rabbit, and the village provided Nang and the Krahom with a platoon of stragglers and porters. Phase one, eliminate government control, was complete. Now Nang would implement the next phase, for which he’d prepared for almost a year.

  Nang approached the FANK LP, the listening post, on the southeast flank of the column’s night logger. There was no moon and the ground was blanketed with a layer of mist, a fog which started just above his head and was perhaps three meters thick. Above the mist the night was crystal clear, yet below, the world was close and black.

  He could hear the FANK troops moving, restless, afraid but not disciplined, most not even trained to be silent and still. They talked loudly, as if by giving away their position they would make any enemy closing on Kompong Thom circumvent the LP and target a main garrison. Nang pulled, pushed, prodded his three-boy team. Twenty meters from the FANK LP they settled, rested, waited, listening until the nationals were silent, asleep. At two in the morning Nang advanced, emerged within the LP’s perimeter as he had done so often, emerged to wake the sergeant in charge.