White Christmas in Saigon

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘Stop crying into your bourbon,’ Chuck said, reading his mind. ‘We’ll call back here later on. After we’ve eaten.’

  It was dark now and Tu Do was packed with off-duty servicemen looking for a little recreation. Neon lights glittered out the names of the bars and clubs. Denver, Cincinnati, Arc en Ciel, Maximos, La Pagoda, Joe Marcel’s, Bong Lai, Chicago. The music reverberating out of the ultraviolet-lit depths was a pulsating cacophony of Jimi Hendrix, James Brown, Wilson Pickett, and the Temptations.

  They dined at the Blue Diamond, ordering sweet and sour pork and drinking more bourbon. Afterwards they strolled unsteadily across to the Maximos, avoiding the heavily congested traffic with difficulty. It seemed to Kyle that every South Vietnamese in the country was the proud owner of a Honda or a Yamaha or a 50cc Suzuki, and that all were intent on mowing down anyone or anything that got in their way. Cabs fought for road space, horns blaring. Jeeps blasted their way through, seeming to care even less for the rules of the road than the cyclo riders. There was not the slightest attempt to control traffic. It was every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost.

  The next morning Kyle couldn’t remember whether they had returned to the Melody or not. Chuck assured him that they had, and that they had bought enough Saigon tea to float a tanker.

  They breakfasted at the Continental, huge ceiling fans creaking noisily above their heads, the heat already oppressive.

  ‘Well, we hit half of Tu Do Street pretty thoroughly last night,’ Chuck said, drinking his third cup of black coffee.

  ‘What does the little tourist boy want to do today?’

  ‘Hit the other half.’

  Even at eleven in the morning Tu Do was crammed with streetwalkers, pimps, children selling cigarettes, and trucks and jeeps and a thousand bikes.

  ‘Christ!’ Kyle yelled, leaping to safety as a little four-door Renault taxicab nearly mowed him down. ‘I was told this city was the Avignon of the East! Avignon, my ass! It’s more like New York City when there’s a subway strike!’

  They had begun drinking in the Sporting Bar. ‘These guys are a gas,’ Chuck had said, referring to the Green Berets. ‘To hear them talk, you’d think they were God’s own!’

  The ceiling fans above the bar were more efficient than the ones at the Continental, and Kyle began to feel relatively comfortable. It was impossible to feel cool. That morning sweat began to darken his fatigues before he had even finished putting them on, and he had long ago vowed that no matter how bleak a Boston Winter, he would never crave the sun again. He downed his third beer, his sense of well-being increasing.

  ‘You guys Air Cav?’ a powerfully built Green Beret asked, peering at the horse patch on Kyle’s fatigues.

  Kyle nodded, draining his glass. ‘What’s the matter with you guys, don’t you have no bar of your own to go to?’ the Green Beret grumbled.

  Kyle grinned. ‘If we do, I haven’t found it yet.’

  The Green Beret belched. ‘Jeez. You a new guy? How many days you got left in ’Nam? Three fifty-eight? Three fifty-seven?’

  ‘Three twenty-three,’ Kyle said, unperturbed.

  ‘Jeez,’ the Green Beret repeated sympathetically. ‘Your poor mother. I’m short. I’ve got nineteen days left. Nineteen and then I’m on that big silver bird back to the world!’

  ‘Air Cav,’ the guy sitting next to them said derisively. ‘What do the fucking Air Cav know. You two chopper jocks?’

  Kyle nodded while Chuck continued to drink his beer as if no conversation were taking place.

  ‘What the hell! Fly in, fly out. Hot showers at night, clean sheets, orange juice, Coke, and American apple pie. What the fuck do you guys know about sleeping in the jungle with a million bugs for weeks on end, about having your feet in paddy fields so long they begin to rot, about not being able to take a step without wondering if you’re going to set off a booby trap that will blow your legs in front of your face, or a hole in your chest they could drive a truck through. What the fuck’ – he was yelling now – ‘do you guys know about fighting a cocksucking war?’

  Kyle didn’t answer. Watching from the Huey as he offloaded troops into jungle scores of miles from the nearest base camp, knowing that they were setting off on patrols into Viet Cong territory that would possibly last for days on end, he had often wondered the same thing.

  His war bore no relation to their war. His war was flying hundreds of thousands of dollars of steel and Plexiglas with all the skill and recklessness and panache of a First World War flying ace. It was the sexiest thing he had ever experienced. To Kyle, a Huey was the last word in glamour. He loved to see them flocking back to base like great, silk-black birds of prey. He loved their speed, their manoeuvrability, their sheer, goddammed eroticism. Chuck answered the savage questioner for him.

  ‘I know that statistically one in five of us is going to end up dead,’ he said conversationally, still hunched over his drink and not bothering to turn his head.

  There was a slight, ominous silence. Although neither Chuck nor Kyle were built on the bull-like lines of the men on either side of them, they both possessed the air of dudes who, in Green Beret parlance, definitely had their shit together.

  ‘Let’s give the guys a break,’ the first Green Beret said magnanimously, too hot to want to brawl with the Air Cav. ‘What are you drinking? Jeez. Why don’t we make a party of it?’

  They did so, spilling drunkenly out from the Sporting Club two hours later, arms around each other’s shoulders as if they’d all been buddies since first grade.

  ‘How about a little fem-i-nine company?’ The Green Beret who had initially been belligerent was now as friendly as a pussycat.

  ‘I need to stop by the International and pick up some more dough.’ His buddy hiccuped. He turned unsteadily towards Chuck and Kyle. ‘You staying at the International too? The officers’ club at the International serves the best rare sirloin and baked potatoes with sour cream this side of the Brooklyn Bridge.’

  Kyle had long ago guessed that the Continental’s fading splendour catered mainly to journalists and civilians, and that staying there wasn’t normal for US military personnel. ‘Sure,’ he said agreeably, ‘wouldn’t think of bunking down anywhere else.’

  By the time they reached the International, Kyle was so affected by the numberless beers and bourbons he had drunk that he could hardly stand. He staggered past the military police at the door, wishing to God that the jerk they were with would hurry up and pocket his dough so that they could hit the Street again and find themselves some girls.

  The guys back at camp had been right when they said that all Vietnamese girls were more than willing. Christ, he’d enjoyed himself last night almost as much as he had with Serena.

  There was a girl behind the desk in the lobby. The prettiest, sweetest girl he’d ever seen in his life. Jet-black hair flowed straight down her back. Her sloe eyes were thick-lashed and lustrous, her nose as cute as a kitten’s, her mouth smiling and inviting. She wasn’t wearing one of the short, ill-fitting miniskirts that the girls he had seen the previous night had worn. She wore the most feminine dress he had ever laid eyes on. It was a high-necked ankle-length tunic slit to the waist over loose silk pantaloons. There wasn’t an inch of flesh showing, and yet it was a hundred times more arousing than the see-through dresses that the girls had worn in the La Bohéme.

  ‘Oh, boy,’ he said beneath his breath to Chuck. ‘Am I going to get me some of that!’

  Chuck said something back to him, but Kyle wasn’t listening. He was already weaving his way to the desk and the smiling vision beckoning him onwards.

  ‘Shaigon tea?’ he queried leeringly, leaning his weight on the desk as the room spun around him. ‘How much Shaigon tea for a nice, friendly fuck?’

  He was too drunk to see that the smile had frozen on her face and that her eyes had filled with sudden alarm. He reached out for her, grasping hold of her arm and pulling her

  toward him. ‘You wanna feel my dick?’ he asked, remembe
ring the free-for-all there had been for such a privilege in La Bohéme. ‘You wanna feel a real, big, hard American dick?’

  Chuck and his newfound buddies, hooting with laughter, reached him seconds before the military police did.

  ‘Come on, lover boy,’ Chuck said as the three of them hauled him away from the desk and began to drag him in the direction of the doors. ‘If you want to get your rocks off, you’re going to have to learn to do it in the right place!’

  They found so many other places during the rest of the day that Kyle was unsure how many of them were right and how many were wrong. One thing he was sure of, though, and that was that none of them contained the dream in flowing traditional dress who had smiled so sweetly at him.

  When he awoke next morning in his room at the Continental he was suffering from the worst hangover of his life.

  ‘Can’t take the pace?’ Chuck asked teasingly as Kyle groped his way into the bathroom and vomited into the toilet.

  It was fifteen minutes before he returned, white-faced, to the bedroom. ‘It must have been the dope we were given at the Bluebird,’ he said weakly. ‘It must have been spiked.’

  ‘Spiked, my ass,’ Chuck said. ‘You were just out of your league, that’s all.’ He began to laugh as he slicked his short fair hair down in front of a smoky mirror. ‘Christ, you should have heard yourself with the receptionist at the International. “Shaigon tea? How much Shaigon tea for a nice, friendly fuck?”’

  Kyle groaned and reached for his pants. ‘Don’t tell me any more. I don’t think I want to remember.’

  Chuck, freshly showered and dressed in clean fatigues, leaned against the bathroom door, arms crossed, watching pityingly as Kyle struggled to zip up his pants.

  ‘You were damned lucky not to find yourself in the caring custody of the military police,’ he said, grinning. ‘There’s an army of street-walkers in Tu Do, and you have to proposition the one dink who is definitely out of bounds.’ He shook his head in mock despair. ‘Christ, don’t they teach you guys anything at Princeton?’

  Memory was filtering back into Kyle’s brain. He pulled on his shirt and said slowly, ‘Was that the girl in the long flowing tunic and pants?’

  ‘An ao dai,’ Chuck said patiently. ‘The long flowing silk tunic and pants are called ao dais. They’re Vietnamese traditional dress.’

  Kyle was remembering more than the ao dai; he was remembering silk-black hair and soft, gentle eyes, and a sweet, captivating smile. ‘Who did you say she was? What did you say I said to her?’ he asked, tucking his shirt into his pants. ‘I wasn’t rude to her, was I?’

  Chuck hooted with laughter. ‘Depends on what you privileged Princeton guys call rude. How does, “You wanna feel a big, hard American dick,” grab you?’

  Kyle’s lean-angled face tightened. ‘Are you shitting me? Is that really what I said?’

  ‘That’s really what you said, lover boy. Didn’t seem to impress the lady though. Seemed it was an offer she had no trouble refusing.’

  He was still laughing, but Kyle felt even sicker than he had twenty minutes earlier. Christ, had he really said those things? And to a girl who he now remembered clearly had looked as shy and as innocent as a Raphael Madonna.

  ‘Come on,’ Chuck said impatiently, dismissing the episode. ‘We have only two hours before we have to report to the maintenance depot. Let’s get a decent breakfast before we leave.’

  Kyle slipped a pack of Winstons into his shirt pocket. ‘You go on. I think I ought to make my way over to the International to apologize. Who did you say she was again? The receptionist?’

  Chuck nodded. ‘But don’t bother with any apologies,’ he said as they walked out of the room and into the corridor. ‘She may be the receptionist, but she’s still only a dink. What happened was no big deal, just the sort of thing girls like her have to get used to.’

  They walked down the broad sweep of stairs to the Continental’s restaurant, the most attractive feature of the hotel. There was only a carved stone fence between the restaurant and the main Street. If passersby saw anyone they recognized dining, they were able to stop and exchange a few words.

  Kyle drank his first cup-of coffee quickly and then rose to his feet. ‘I’m going to split for five minutes,’ he said Chuck looked up at him in surprise. ‘I’ll be back before you’ve finished eating.’

  Chuck had no time to ask him where the hell he was going as he walked quickly away. He wanted to talk to the girl at the International. He wanted to see her smile again.

  When she saw him stride into the lobby, the smile she had been wearing for some departing servicemen died. She took a prudent step or two backward, away from the desk, so that he could not grab hold of her again.

  At first Kyle was relieved. She was just as beautiful in the cold light of sobriety as she was when he was drunk. He hadn’t made an ass of himself over a girl who wasn’t worth it.

  ‘Do you remember me?’ he asked, suddenly feeling awkward, as if he were fourteen again and propositioning his first date.

  She nodded, remaining a good two feet away from him, her dark eyes wary.

  ‘I was drunk as a skunk,’ he said without preamble. ‘I understand I said some pretty unforgivable things to you. I’ve come to say that I’m sorry.’

  The expression in her eyes had changed from wariness to bewilderment. She hadn’t spoken, and he wondered if she understood what he was saying. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, enunciating the words slowly. ‘I … was … drunk …’

  ‘… as a skunk,’ she finished for him, sloe eyes dancing with laughter.

  He grinned, no longer feeling awkward. ‘And I’m sorry.’

  A slight flush of colour had touched her pale amber cheeks, and she lowered her eyes from his, saying a little shyly, ‘That is all right. I accept your apology.’

  Kyle hesitated. He wanted to see her again but was suddenly aware that he had no idea what sort of approach would be acceptable. She was a respectable South Vietnamese girl and he realized with something of a shock that he knew nothing at all about her culture, of what freedoms she enjoyed or didn’t enjoy.

  ‘I’m flying back to my base today,’ he said, wishing that she would look up again so that he could hold her eyes with his. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back in Saigon, but when I am, will you have dinner with me?’

  She had begun to shake her head, and he said with fierce urgency, ‘You can bring along a chaperone if you like. I just want to make amends for my rude behaviour. Have dinner with you. Talk.’

  This time her silk-dark head rose and her eyes met his, the laughter dancing in them once again. ‘You would not mind my elder sister coming with me?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’ Hell, he didn’t care if she brought Ho Chi Minh with her. He just wanted to see her again.

  ‘Then yes, I will have dinner with you the next time you are in Saigon,’ she said as a marine walked up to the desk and asked for his room key.

  There were more marines entering the lobby, and as she turned toward them, he said with sudden panic, ‘I don’t know your name!’

  ‘Trinh,’ she said, her voice so lilting that it sounded like a note of music.

  He grinned. ‘Mine is Kyle.’ As the marines descended on the desk, clamouring for attention, he reluctantly turned on his heel, striding buoyantly back out into the searingly hot street.

  Three days later the war changed forever for Kyle. He and Chuck had been detailed to fly a search-and-destroy patrol to a village some twenty miles north of their base. There were three other Hueys flying with them, each carrying a full complement of men. Five minutes after they had lifted off, an order came for them to make to an alternative landing zone and to stand by.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Kyle had asked Chuck over the intercom. ‘Is the original LZ too hot?’

  Chuck had shrugged. ‘You tell me,’ he said disinterestedly.

  For four tedious hours they blistered beneath the heat at a landing zone without shade and with no suppli
es except those they had with them. Chuck settled himself in the Huey’s cockpit and managed, with great difficulty, to fall asleep. Most of the men were just sitting miserably in the small amount of shade that the Hueys gave, talking. Kyle was playing poker with a fellow Bostonian who had been in the country even less time than himself.

  ‘Three weeks,’ Ricky Skeffington said slightly defensively. ‘But don’t call me a damned cherry. I hate being called a damned cherry!’

  He was a well-built, personable boy with a thatch of bright red hair, a host of freckles, and a cheeky grin that Kyle had liked right away.

  For a while, as they played, they talked about football. Ricky had been selected for a draft pick. When his tour of duty was over, he hoped to play pro ball. They talked about the New York Giants and the New England Patriots and what their respective chances were for the next season.

  Suddenly Ricky changed the subject. ‘A little bird told me you went to Princeton,’ he said as he dealt with the flair of a riverboat gambler.

  Kyle nodded. Princeton seemed so far in his past that he could barely remember it.

  ‘Okay,’ Ricky said, now that he had established Kyle’s credentials. ‘I did only one year in college, but you’re an educated guy. You tell me if it’s true what some guy in raining camp told me. That the French overran Vietnam and that in the last war America supported Ho Chi Minh against the Japanese?’

  Kyle studied his hand and threw away two cards. ‘It’s true that Vietnam was a French colony and it’s also true that America supported Ho Chi Minh in his fight against the Japanese.’ He grinned. ‘Hell, the Japs were our enemy too, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, but this guy in training camp said that when the war was over, the Viets didn’t want the French back. He said that the British helped the French to regain control and that they did so with American consent.’

  Kyle nodded. ‘That’s more or less what happened.’

  ‘And then what?’ Ricky continued doggedly.

  ‘The Vietnamese eventually defeated the French, and it was agreed in Geneva that the country would be temporarily divided at the seventeenth parallel. The idea was that after a year or so, elections would be held for the government of a reunified Vietnam. But the head of the South Vietnamese government was Ngo Dinh Diem, and because he was afraid that an election would put Ho Chi Minh into power, he refused to allow any elections to be held.’