-You have a little bit of the woman in you, she said. Don’t be offended, Snow, I know this is true: it’s in your face. And perhaps that makes men love you more, without knowing why. As for women, they’ll always want to rescue you and change you. But they won’t change you, and won’t possess you. And the reason I understand that is because I’m the same. I can’t be possessed either, and I don’t want to possess you. But we’ll always be here for each other, won’t we?
-Don’t feel badly about losing your Kim Anh, she said. Vietnamese don’t waste time on regret: regret’s a bloody waste of life; you should learn that. You wouldn’t have stayed with her, she said, even though you wanted to. Yes, I know how much you loved her. I was becoming a little in love with her myself, she was so beautiful. Don’t look at me like that: sometimes I do love women, didn’t you know? I’ve never met a man ! care for as I care for you, but I’m not going to say I’m in love with you. And I know that I won’t really lose you, because I know that you’ll never leave Asia.
-I asked her how she knew that.
-Maybe I’m a bit of a witch, she said. I also know that you won’t die here in Vietnam. You’ll die somewhere else in Asia. Don’t worry; it won’t be for a long time. And remember: “For the fish, it’s a question of being alive—they don’t worry about the depth of the water.”
-Recording all this is probably not a good idea. Maybe it’s best to forget it-even though I don’t want to. Maybe I’ll eventually wipe this tape.
6.
HARVEY DRUMMOND
About Kim Anh I’d known almost nothing. Now she was gone, and I doubt that Langford had really known her much better than I had.
Some people see the crippled girl’s disappearance (and perhaps her death, for all we’ll ever know) as a major blow, and the reason he never married. I’m not so sure about that, myself: but certainly he changed from then on. Outwardly, it wasn’t obvious: his easy good humor was the same, and his enjoyment of life appeared to come back as soon as he was covering the action again. But he had spells of brooding quietness, back in Villa Volkov; and he drank a lot more than before in the Tu Do bars. Usually, Volkov and Feng went with him; so did I, when I was in town. But sometimes I’d catch sight of him alone.
He must have drunk in every bar and brothel in central Saigon many times. He was searching there for Kim Anh. He didn’t talk about her much, but he insisted to us that she was still alive, and in some way entrapped by the man he said posed as her uncle. He was convinced that the uncle had put her to work as a bar girl, and was living off her earnings. He searched for the uncle as well, scouring often through the shantytown near Cholon; but he never found him either.
As far as anyone knows, Langford’s relationships with women for many years after that were few and transitory. The only thing that appeared constant in his life was the friendship with Madame Phan-and as I’ve said, I believe that was platonic. There were no other serious involvements in Vietnam; and he was never, so far as I know, involved with a Western woman again. His occasional affairs-if they really were affairs—were always with Vietnamese and Cambodian bar girls. He’d never gone to bar girls before Kim Anh disappeared. Now, when he’d appear in company with one, he’d behave to her with scrupulous courtesy and respect. This may sound hackneyed, but he really did treat the bar girls as ladies.
Some people were cynical about this, seeing it as a technique of seduction he employed; but I don’t think so. In another time, he’d probably have been described as romantic. That may seem paradoxical, since we’re probably talking about a very casual sex life, similar to that of many other correspondents and cameramen: men like Volkov. But Langford was always giving these young Vietnamese women lavish amounts of money: just as he did with his child beggars. I heard too that he helped some of their families—when they still had families. He had a kind of secret life now in that shantytown at Cholon; after he gave up looking for Kim Anh and her uncle, he seems to have involved himself there with helping the refugees from the bombing. He wouldn’t talk about this; one picked it up in indirect ways. So when I say he was romantic about his bar girls, I mean that some sort of idealism was involved-presumably founded on pity. And pity can be romantic, wouldn’t you agree? Pity can be a kind of aphrodisiac. And maybe all these girls were shadows of Kim Anh.
Having said all that-and all of it’s guessing--I can’t quite see Mike’s loss of her as a tragedy in depth. You may disagree. But the episode had been so brief; so unreal. And the barrier of language would surely have prevented much depth of communication. He had little French, and far less command of Vietnamese then than he’d develop in the future. His acquaintance with Kim Anh, despite what he’d done for her, had been as brief as his acquaintance with Vietnam then was. So forgive me: although she was so poignantly lovely and sad, I have to see his love of her as love of an illusion. I don’t want to sound callous, but I also formed the impression that Kim Anh had promised to be an answer to something for him-and now the answer had been taken away.
I’ve no idea what that something was.
A few months later, in the February of 1966, ABS informed me that I was being posted to London. It would be seven years before they sent me to Indochina again. So except for a few letters we exchanged over those years, and sightings of his pictures in various papers and magazines, I lost track of Langford until early in 1973, when I came back to cover the war in Cambodia..
My last sight of him in Saigon is easy to remember. It was the eve of my final departure-and also the afternoon of his extraordinary outburst at the Five O‘Clock Follies.
You’ll have heard of the Follies, no doubt. That was what we called the press briefing the American Military Command staged each afternoon in the Rex-a big hotel on Nguyen Hue Boulevard, conveniently opposite the Eden Building, where Telenews and other media organizations were housed. The Rex had been entirely taken over by Military Assistance Command, Vietnam (or “Macvee,” as we called it), and the ground floor housed one of those many organizations of theirs that went under an acronym: JUSPAO, the Joint U.S. Public Affairs Office.
Here we entered a fully North American zone. It was air-conditioned, and crowded with hardworking military public relations people, typing and telephoning with that air of intense purpose that can make the Americans impressive or worrying, depending on your prejudices. The amount of paper pumped out in those warrens was awesome. It contained not only the vital daily intelligence that we all depended on, but an unfolding story of the war as MACV wished it to be: a sort of serialized novel whose tone was realistic yet ever positive, and whose ending was bound to be triumphant. The morning and evening press releases sat in bulging racks; we were even provided with telephones, to get the stuff through. Journalists could live almost entirely within the walls of this paper kingdom if they wanted to, and cover the war from JUSPAO, through JUSPAO’s eyes.
Some did; but other bao chi were beginning to ask more and more skeptical questions at the Follies, and were suggesting that the paper story didn’t always tally with the one they’d discovered outside. And this made Langford’s performance that evening of considerable interest to his colleagues.
The conference was held in a fully equipped auditorium. Coming in there from the noise and petrol-smelling heat of Nguyen Hue Boulevard, I was always glad of the imported air-conditioning’s icy fingers, and not inclined to sneer at American luxury. A hundred or so of us sat packed on tubular steel chairs, notebooks and press releases on our laps, like aging students: sullen or boisterous, as the case might be. I was sitting on an aisle opposite Trevor Griffiths; Langford was somewhere near the back. He’d come in late, as he usually did, since he used to go as well to the Army of South Vietnam’s four-thirty press conference in ARVN headquarters, a little further up the boulevard. Hardly anyone went to that, and I confess I didn’t either: the seating was poor, there was no air-conditioning, no microphones, no maps, and the press saw no point in it anyway. The ARVN weren’t news; the Americans were running the war.
Jokes and laughs and extended coughings went up now as we waited for the briefing to begin. An Army major in starched, knife-edged khakis took the stage, pointer in hand, coming up to the lectern in front of the charts and maps. He was tall and prematurely bald, with a fringe of foxy red hair; his intense brown eyes looked honest. An elderly colonel with a steel gray crew cut stood to one side, ready to intervene if the questioning got difficult.
The major got through his briefing fairly quickly, using the Vietnam militaryspeak we all had to master to understand anything. Among other things, he spoke of continuing U.S. military assistance to the South Vietnamese forces through strategic bombing. He claimed, as usual, that the raids were successfully containing Viet Cong expansion. It was all pretty routine, and I didn’t see a story this evening.
When question time came, and the soldier sitting under the stage with his tape recorder began pointing a microphone at the audience, I was surprised to hear Langford identify himself from the back. Photographers seldom asked questions, and Mike never. Turning, I found that he was on his feet, and still in combat fatigues: he must have come straight here from the field. He didn’t have his cameras; he’d probably left them in the ‘Telenews office over the way. He looked grimy and extremely tired, and his voice was very quiet: I had to strain to hear it. But his reputation, particularly through his pictures for Newsweekand Paris Match, was already becoming considerable, and the correspondents listened attentively.
“Major, I believe you said that the area south of Soc Trang has been pacified through air strikes,” he said. “You also said that the VC are giving no serious trouble there. I’ve just got back from a week in the field with an ARVN battalion down there. They’re the only forces opposing the VC on the ground in that area. No other correspondents were covering. I want to tell you that I saw no evidence that the air strikes are weakening the VC. Only that you’re killing large numbers of the rural population without any military gain.”
He paused, and there was a silence. People craned to stare at him, and I did the same. I was frankly surprised, and also embarrassed. Instead of asking a question, Mike was making a speech, like some novice correspondent with an antiwar line to push. It was entirely out of character, and so was his demeanor. His fists were clenched, and his eyes were bulging slightly, as though he were drunk. But he plainly wasn’t drunk; despite the softness of his voice, he seemed actually to be holding in check some sort of rage: I don’t think the word’s too strong. In someone so calm, the effect was eerie.
The major drew his reddish brows together, gazing at Langford as though having sincere difficulty in understanding what he was doing here. Perhaps the dirty fatigues bothered him. But when he answered, his tone remained polite. “Well, that’s one man’s observation, concerning a particular area. But our intelligence shows that in general our preplanned strikes to assist the South Vietnamese Government forces are working. In depriving the enemy of his village sanctuaries, we’re hurting his ability to function. Did you actually have a question, Mr. Langford?”
A flush mounted in Langford’s face: he went a profound pink. I’d seldom seen this happen in an adult, and it was both bizarre and distressing. But it went as quickly as it had come, leaving him very pale; and when he answered, his tone was even.
“Yes, Major, I do have a question,” he said. “Will you acknowledge that a pitched battle took place this morning between the Viet Cong and ARVN forces just south of Soc Trang, in which American air support was involved? And will you confirm that this battle ended with heavy losses to the ARVN battalion, and the wiping out of an entire company?”
There were some small exclamations, and the major hesitated. Before he could reply, Langford was going on. “I was attached to that company throughout the engagement-and I’d like to ask something else. Will you confirm that the commander of the company, Captain Le Tan Trung, was killed by American fire because a U.S. helicopter pilot got his coordinates wrong? And will you also acknowledge that the VC downed two U.S. helicopter gunships, with a loss of six American lives?”
He sat down, and people began to converse loudly with one another. I should point out that the stir wasn’t really about the fate of the ARVN company: an ARVN defeat in the Delta, even of this dimension, even with American losses involved, wasn’t really big news, since the ARVN weren’t big news. The current American battles in the Highlands were what mattered most. What was interesting was the fact that we hadn’t been told about it.
The major glanced quickly at the colonel. The colonel stepped quickly to the microphone, hands crossed neatly over his groin, and cleared his throat.
“Yes, we can confirm that this battle took place,” he said. “I know nothing about the circumstances of a company commander’s death by friendly fire, but I sincerely regret that, if it’s true. And yes, I can confirm the downing of two UH-1 Iroquois gunships, with a loss of six American lives.”
He stepped back again abruptly, as though the matter were over.
But it wasn‘t, of course. The briefers had been forced to admit to losses they hadn’t informed us of-and that would be the story for journalists like Griffiths, who was smiling with delight, and scribbling hard in his notebook. The defeat itself, and the death of Mike’s friend Captain Trung, were of small interest.
A correspondent from the New York Times was on his feet. He was a heavily built man called Kramer, with a. dark, receding crew cut, and one of those deep bass American voices that command attention. His colleagues held him in high esteem, and MACV followed his stories with particular concern.
“My question is this, Colonel. Since your briefers left this battle out, I’m wondering what else you left out? And what credibility do we now attach to these official briefings?”
The colonel’s lips tightened; he paused before replying, and I turned around again to look at Langford. But I found that he’d left the auditorium; his chair was empty.
I came out under the teak-lined awning of the Rex. I’d left as soon as I saw Mike had gone; I wanted to catch up with him. I knew that in a few moments, other correspondents might follow: they’d want to get his story.
The orange-tiled steeples of the old Town Hall at the top of Nguyen Hue were casting baroque shadows, and the tide of bicycles and motor scooters was running faster with the promise of evening. Opposite, the neon sign saying Sanyo winked on the ferroconcrete Eden Building, just above our office window, and I suddenly knew I was saying goodbye to Saigon; it hadn’t really sunk in until now. I looked among the crowds for Langford.
I soon caught sight of his yellow head, but he was a little way off, moving south on the pavement in the direction of the river. He was going at a fast pace, in spite of his combat boots, and I hurried to try and catch up with him.
But I failed. He suddenly turned right into Le Loi Avenue, and then crossed the road among the traffic, dodging a small swarm of bicycles and cyclos. A passing convoy of military trucks and Jeeps hid him from me, and by the time it was past, he’d disappeared.
I caught a cyclo down Tu Do to the Texas Happy Bar, hoping he’d come there too. He wasn’t here, but I bought a beer and settled on a stool. Dmitri Volkov was away on assignment in Cambodia, but Jim Feng and Trevor Griffiths would arrive soon: we’d arranged to meet here.
When they came, they wanted to know where Langford was: they’d assumed he’d join us, on my last evening here. So had I; but I no longer felt certain of it.
Griffiths was simmering with glee over Mike’s performance; his eyes gleamed in the lamplight in the way they did when he was profoundly gratified or incensed. He’d already got his story off to the Guardian, and now he leaned sideways on his stool to look at me with the air of an athlete who’d run his race well.
“Superb performance of Langford‘s,” he announced. “A clear exposure of Macvee’s whitewash and evasion. I didn’t know Snow had it in him. The man’s a rebel, underneath, in spite of his eccentric devotion to the cause of the South Vietnamese.” He drew fervently on his cigarett
e, savoring American disarray. “The VC will take the whole Delta soon, and Saigon next. But you won’t see it, will you, Harvey? Name your drink, my son: tonight we’ll toast your departure for Blighty, and buy you a fine Italian meal.”
Jim Feng looked at me soberly, passing me a Scotch. “This is a sad thing for Mike,” he said. “He and Captain Trung were friends: that is why he blew up. We should look for him.”
I’d already phoned the Telenews office and the villa; he wasn’t in either place, I told them. After a time, we left the Happy Bar and set out to check other bars where he might be. But we didn’t find him, and went on to dinner at La Doice Vita without him.
Afterwards, at about eleven-thirty, with curfew near, Griffiths went off to his hotel, and Jim went home to Villa Volkov in the Budgie. He’d expected me to come too; but I decided to linger on Tu Do for half an hour more. I still wanted to say goodbye to Langford.
I couldn’t be sure that he’d turn up at the villa that night; his comings and goings had become less and less predictable lately. And I wanted to say goodbye as well to the carnival of Tu Do at night, which reached its crescendo now, in the hour before curfew. I wanted to say goodbye to Saigon: a city which might well fall before I ever got back here.
Saigon, the Pearl! It was exhausted now: debauched; doomed; threatening. Mostly I’d detested it; but now that ‘[ was leaving, I knew I’d perversely miss it. Certainly I’d miss the Soldiers Three, and Villa Volkov; I suspected I might even miss the war, and the endless hushed beating of chopper blades and the high thunder of F-4 Phantoms and Super Sabres that was the war’s music. So I went on searching, with drunken obsessiveness. I’d consumed a good deal of wine, and time had got lost down a funnel.
Highways to a War Page 23
