The Sorrow of War (17 page)

When they captured the four commandos who had murdered the three girls he had decided to deal with them severely, meting out terrible deaths. Just before their execution he forced them to dig their own grave and look at the pit where their bodies would end life on this earth. But at the last moment, as he was about to press the trigger with the gun aimed directly at them, he gave them a reprieve.

It was not because of their pleading, nor because of prompting from his colleagues. No, it was because Phuong's words had come to him like an inner voice: "So, you'll kill lots of men? That'll make you a hero, I suppose?"

It was unbelievable. He had let them live. It was uncanny and uncharacteristic of him, but that's how it had ended. Absurd.

When he had been at Clinic 8, the second time he had thought of her, he had been seriously wounded. He had been delirious, thinking Phuong had actually come to him, not in a dream but in reality.

It was at the start of the 1969 rainy season, after his 27th Battalion had been surrounded and almost totally wiped out by the Americans. Kien had crawled most of a day and a night, dragging himself through mud on the forest floor, his naked body badly cut up. Men who had escaped from the massacre met up with him on the edge of the forest and carried him west to the border. He came to at Clinic 8, safely close to the Cambodian border.

Clinic 8 consisted of a disheveled medical team, ragged and beaten to threads after months of treating the wounded, after incessant withdrawals by men who had been continually surrounded, then bombed and shelled by artillery. Doctors, nurses, and wounded soldiers, carrying one another on stretchers or on their backs, withdrew from the conflict under the protection of the bamboo canopies to the safety of their camp on the Cambodian border.

Just exactly where Clinic 8 was and the general situation with the staff or even what they looked like, Kien never discovered. In the two months he had been there before being transferred to Hospital 214, he had lain buried in a flat-roofed trench from which water gushed on both sides. He had a horrible wound between his legs and another on

his shoulder. His rotdng flesh stank so strongly that even the mosquitoes avoided it. He seemed permanently comatose, and the few times he came to his senses only reconfirmed his certainty that he would surely die when he next lost consciousness.

Whenever he awakened and opened his eyes he would see Phuong in the trench with him. He called her name softly, but she never did answer him. She simply smiled and bent over close to him, placing her lips on his wet forehead.

His Phuong of the jungle hospital caressed him with her rugged, sometimes clumsy hands. Her caresses and her soft smile seemed in harmony with the rain on the trench roof and the lament of the jungle. Despite the stink from his rotting wounds he saw her brown eyes sparkle, even in the dark. "Phuong," he called weakly through clenched teeth.

But the young girl just went on blithely changing his bandages, using tweezers to pull the leeches from his flesh and clean his wounds. Then she wrapped him in a torn blanket and dropped the mosquito net over him.

He tried smiling his thanks to her but then dropped off, back into his coma.

In the following weeks Kien began to improve, coming to his senses for a little longer each time and losing consciousness for shorter periods. In the brighter, dry surroundings of Hospital 214, which was little more than a shed, Phuong did not visit him. When he recovered fully and had been given notice he would be transferred to a regrouping point, he asked news of Phuong from Clinic 8. But none of the soldiers who had been there knew anyone named Phuong.

"You're wrong," said one soldier whose legs had both been amputated. "I was there when you were out of your skull, so I know. You kept calling her Phuong but she

couldn't correct you because she was dumb. She couldn't talk. She was from Da Nang, struck dumb in some bad fighting there. Yes, a lovely, delicate, good-natured young brown-eyed girl. Shit, you were in terrible shape, man! I can hardly believe you'd be able to remember anything.

"But she's probably dead.We don't know for certain.We were transferred here from there, you and me, along with other seriously wounded. Two hours later B-52S bombed the place, completely wiped them out. After the bombing the enemy raided the place, too."

"Do you know what her name was, the nurse?" asked Kien.

"Lien. Lien or Lieu something. Never called her by name. Just 'Nurse.' What a pretty girl! Struck dumb she was. Dead now, most likely."

Kien in later years never told Phuong that story. They had avoided serious discussion of the war years.Yet when he looked at her without her being aware of it he would suddenly see a parade of war figures crossing his vision.

It was that connection with the long-gone nurse and her likeness to Phuong that brought back events and images he wished to forget. Even when he knew it was Phuong and not the nurse, just her words, her profile, were enough to trigger the same violent memories.

Phuong had decided to break it off. She had left him, that early winter evening, brushing past him out of the door without even bothering to switch off the lights in her room next door.

Seemingly without cause Phuong had decided to end the
merriment
they'd
shared
during
the
autumn. The
noisy, festive atmosphere was swept aside by the early cold winds of winter.

Her apartment, until recently a place of joy and laughter, was now silent and empty.The guests who so frequently bustled in had now stopped coming, as if by magic. Kien had guessed this was an annual occurrence with Phuong; she had indulged herself in all forms of partying and pleasures and then suddenly ceased, as though preparing to enter a convent.

When she was in this mood Kien too became depressed. He would rather stand by night after night listening to her lovers' noisy jokes than not have her there at all. As she wound herself down from her activities Kien noticed a decrease in the number of rather sad men knocking on her door, waiting patiently for her to unlock the door from the inside. Then they stopped coming altogether as she confined herself to her apartment.

And now Kien, himself depressed, remembered it was her birthday. He bought a bunch of roses, intending to invite her to a restaurant to celebrate. There had been another power blackout so it would be an ideal excuse not to stay at home.

Although they had separated some time ago he had wanted to see her again. He knocked gently on the door, using a secret code reserved for him alone. But it was not Phuong who answered the door. He heard the key turn and saw the door open slightly.

Through the small opening came the smells of cigarette smoke and cognac.

"Good evening, uncle," Kien said to the slim man standing just inside the door. He shook a smooth, soft, well-manicured hand. It belonged to a man with a wrinkled, withered face. His tiny eyes blinked rapidly as he looked at Kien, mumbling some greeting. He had a rough, uneven beard and salt-and-pepper greying hair. Kien handed the roses past him to Phuong.

"Thank you, Kien!" Phuong said delightedly. "I forgot my own birthday, yet you remembered. Ah, let me introduce you. Kien, this is Mr. Phu, an artist." The men stood looking at each other in silence.

Phuong had dropped into a seat near a flickering candle. Her guitar lay on a small table in front of her."Well," she said, "sorry we can't do our usual. I didn't even think of it."

Her visitor became solicitous. "If you've got a date, please go ahead . . ." he said.

"No. No date. Don't worry, Phu."

Kien looked over to her, but she wouldn't return his glance. He nodded to both of them and withdrew, closing her door behind him.

Back in his room he walked over to his desk, lit a lamp, and started looking at his manuscript. He had a choking sensation in his throat and a feeling of total inadequacy, which brought on a hot rush of self-pity. He stood and looked at the raindrops hitting the window, sliding down in gloomy patterns on the windowpane.

He poured himself a glass of wine, filled it to the brim, and tossed it down hurriedly. He sat in his chair and held his head in his hands.

Suddenly his door creaked open. Phuong came in and softly moved to his side. "Kien," she whispered, standing close to him and stroking his hair. "Kien, you're in sorry shape," she said, bending down and kissing his forehead.

Kien looked up, mumbling some foolish nonsense.

"I had to come to see you," she said. "I won't tell you everything, but some of the things I had to do in the past just to keep afloat, well, at times I felt like an animal. I did a number of beastly things. I'm badly soiled, rotten through and through now."

Kien tried to say something, but she interrupted. "Now I just can't help myself," she said. Kien remembered hearing

late-night callers squabbling with each other over her favors, the losers turning away in disgust. "I can't help myself, but I also have to live. I'll probably die some sinful, pleasurable death. But ignore me, I'm finished. This is the way I'll see my life out," she said.

He pleaded with her to return, saying naive and foolish things, which she ignored. He said he wanted to live with her again instead of just next door to her. But she cut in: "Don't even think about it. It's over. We deserved to have had a happy life together, but events conspired against us. You know that.You know the circumstances as well as I do. Let's go our own separate ways from now on. Forever. It's the only way."

Kien looked up at her, a question in his eyes.

"I met him last week, by chance," she said."But I'm not leaving because of him. I've not decided anything with him yet."

"So why?" he asked.

"Because I can't stand this tension any longer, that's why."

"I don't see why you have to run after that old clown. It can't be that bad," he said.

"Old? I'm no spring chicken myself.You still think I'm seventeen, that's your problem.You've never adjusted."

"When are you leaving?"

"Tonight. Now.We won't see each other ever again," she said.

"Just like that? Like closing a bad book?" he said.

They stood and embraced, kissing for a few moments. Phuong pushed him away. "That's enough!" she said.

Kien followed her as she walked to the door. As she was about to leave she turned and leaned against the door. "Forgive me, and now forget me," she said. "I may not know what exactly my future holds, but I do know we can't meet again."

"Are you in love?" he said.

"I loved you and only you, Kien. I never loved anyone else. And you?" she asked.

"I still love you," he replied.

She departed, forever. He had had only two loves in his entire life. Phuong at seventeen in the prewar days, and Phuong now, after the war.

He heard them going downstairs together, carrying suitcases, locking her door. She had slipped an envelope under his door as she left.

The last thing he heard was her high heels in the corridor. His own feet were dragging slightly as he went to the door. He picked up the note: "Darling Kien, I'm leaving. Good-bye to you. It's better this way. Better for both of us. Please, please forget me, I beg you. I wish you great success."

Kien coaxed himself: "I must write!"

Collar up, coat wrapped securely around him, he paced the quiet Hanoi streets night after night making promises to himself, dreaming up slogans to pull his thoughts into line.

"I must write! It's going to be like smashing granite with my fists, like turning myself inside out and exposing all my secrets to the outside world.

"I must write! To rid myself of these devils, to put my tormented soul finally to rest instead of letting it float in a pool of shame and sorrow.

"I must push on! Even if some hours spent at my desk appear wasted, or some of the story-lines I begin have to be discarded, I must press on. Otherwise the pain will be unbearable."

The writing was coming along slowly. Pacing the pavement seemed to help, and to rid him of some of the ill—

humor that occasionally built up. Besides, pacing the streets occasionally brought him flashbacks by association.

Passing the silk quarter one day, he stood watching the girls trying on new silk fashions. He was reminded of some Khmer girls who'd been appointed jungle guides in the west Dac Ret area. They wore their bras on the outside of their garments as adornments, or like precious jewelry.The clever young soldiers who hid bras in their knapsacks won themselves any of these young girls who'd volunteered to help their troops.These country girls would give themselves to the boys and fulfill their wildest fantasies in return for a bra.

In 1973 his regiment had mistakenly been sent a batch of uniforms and assorted articles meant for a women's platoon. Side-buttoned trousers, waist-length jackets, and army-issue bras. These were rock-hard, coarsely woven, ugly things which resembled a pair of green beetles. Such was the tension that any little army-supply bungle like that set the boys laughing.

Street scenes prompted him to generate stories for his book artificially. Scene: A beggar outside an expensive restaurant approaches a wealthy, well-dressed gentleman and a lady wearing gold and diamond rings. "Show compassion for comrades in these hard times," the beggar tells the rich man. The girl starts laughing at the beggar. The rich man says, "If you weren't so damn high-principled I'd give you some money. We Vietnamese are so good at fighting that we've forgotten our manners. Drop the aggression, old man, and I'll give you something.