Legacy of War

by Ed Marohn

  De Mont looked up and said, “The French Foreign Legion lieutenant colonel examined the photos I took of you taking command of the ambushed unit that day by the Michelin Rubber Plantation. He studied the photo of you calling in artillery, while you had that wounded soldier next to you. He seemed shocked. I was too . . . you both bear such a close resemblance to each other. He spent a long time looking at it.

  “But there is more, of course. This lieutenant colonel, a Roger Mongin, was captured when the French were defeated at Dien Bien Phu in 1954.”

  “Hey, that’s heavy stuff,” Jim said. He was intrigued. Fifteen years before Jim and I had entered the war, the NVA had beaten a modern European army.

  I looked at Jacques and asked, “We look alike?”

  “I had only a day to spend with him on my way to Paris to finish the edits on my book about Vietnam. My wife was giving birth to our third child, and I was rushing, of course. He seemed very curious about the picture, but he wouldn’t talk more about it.”

  “Well, we probably look alike because I have some French blood, among other blood lines.” I chuckled. “Look, we’re just getting ready to go to dinner and we should be leaving.” I stood up. “You should join us, Jacques.”

  Jim swallowed his last beer and jumped up. He seemed confused.

  I looked at Jim while Jacques hesitated to speak. “Jim, I think Jacques is speculating about my real father. I really don’t want to get sidetracked—not now. I need to focus on staying alive and returning home to my wife!

  “Look, I never knew my real father and I was adopted, so this might make a good story for your paper, Le Monde, but simply put, my biological father died after World War II. My mother met him in the Grajewo Nazi concentration camp. He died; we presume after the Nazis abandoned the camp. I know nothing about him. She went to great lengths to prevent me from ever knowing. No, I don’t believe for a minute that this Roger Mongin is my real father.”

  “Hell,” Jim said. “Maybe you should check this out.” He caught my dark look. “OK, then,” he said, “guess we should change the subject and go eat.”

  De Mont swallowed the last of his gin and tonic and signaled the waiter for the bill. “Let me pay as my compliments for your dangerous duty in Vietnam, and now you are heading north to do more combat. N’est ce-pas?”

  Nodding to de Mont, I asked, “Will the Rex be crowded with brass?”

  “It will not be bad at this time. The Five O’Clock Follies are over by now.”

  “Yeah, the fucking Five O’Clock Follies,” scoffed Jim.

  “These briefings have become a show rather than valuable war updates. To get the truth, I talk to regular combat officers like you.” De Mont took another drag of his cigarette.

  We were ready to leave, but de Mont obviously had more to say.

  De Mont stood and continued: “When General Westmoreland first took command, he inflated the success of the US troops using the body count of the dead VC and NVA. Then he deployed the marines as bait at Khe Sanh in 1968, to draw the NVA into battle. The NVA used that battle to conceal their main plans: the Tet Offensive—when the VC and NVA attacked over one hundred cities throughout South Vietnam. Again, these briefings are for political show, to keep getting American troops and funding here. It’s manipulated information to tell the world that the Americans and South Vietnamese are winning.”

  What he said bothered me, but I had no counter reply. I had never dug into the basis for the war, accepting the official version from the army and our political leaders—mostly old men who would never serve—that we were fighting communists to preserve democracy for the world. Being a career army officer meant duty and country with no questions asked.

  De Mont took a deep breath and continued. “That is why reporters call these briefings ‘the Follies.’ Whatever the generals say, we try to validate the information. Many of your top brass are more concerned about ticket-punching their military careers.”

  “The NVA soldiers are tough and dedicated. Some haven’t seen their families for years while fighting the French and now us. I’m not certain if we are fighting communism or nationalism anymore,” I said.

  “Oui, but your political leaders focus on the Domino Theory and that communism will spread unless they fight here and now.”

  Jim butted in. “The Puking Buzzards up north will stop them. Hell, they will have John and me fighting there soon.” His beer buzz had taken over.

  De Mont looked confused, so I said, “That’s one of the many nicknames for the 101st Airborne Division. The Screaming Eagles is normally used.” I turned to Jim. “You are confusing Jacques. Keep focused.”

  “OK, Dai uy. Oh Captain, my Captain.” Jim rocked on his heels and smiled like a mischievous little kid.

  De Mont smiled at the Vietnamese term for “captain.”

  “We need to go to dinner.” I grabbed Schaeffer around the shoulders, pulling him to the lounge exit.

  De Mont closed his notepad. “I thank you gentlemen for your insights.”

  I nodded and pushed Schaeffer closer to the exit while de Mont threw some bills on the table and followed us. The evening breeze on the open veranda made the humidity feel less muggy. I turned to de Mont. “Are you joining us at the Rex Hotel restaurant?”

  “Thank you, but I need to finish my dispatches. I will stay in contact as I will be reassigned to cover I Corps, which is where your 101st Airborne Division is located. John, I still have a gut feeling about this French officer and . . . but . . . well, we will see.”

  I paused at the lounge entrance, still confused and not grasping de Mont’s angle about me resembling some retired French lieutenant colonel. My mother had never revealed my biological father or provided me his name. I just knew he was French and that they met in the same Nazi concentration camp as slave laborers to the Third Reich during World War II. I felt no curiosity since he had never existed in my life.

  As the three of us departed the lounge together, de Mont said, “You will enjoy the walk to the Rex Hotel, a few blocks southwest from here. The Rooftop Garden Restaurant is highly rated. Please use my name with the French chef—he knows me. He will prepare you a tasty meal.”

  We said our goodbyes again and parted company. After a fast walk through the congested center of Saigon, we arrived at the Rex and immediately made our way to the restaurant. We were quickly seated at a table with a view of Saigon below and its hectic throngs on the streets. I ate slowly, savoring the morsels, while Schaeffer, overpowered by the fantastic aroma, dug in like he hadn’t eaten for days. We enjoyed pho (rice noodle soup) and cha gio (spring rolls), followed by the main course of bo tung xeo (sliced grilled beef) and com nieu (rice in a clay pot). And of course we had more of the 333 Beer.

  De Mont was correct—the food was excellent. The chef had taken it upon himself to treat us to traditional Vietnamese dishes accented with European flavorings. As Jim babbled, induced by alcohol, I observed the various American senior military officers in their fresh-pressed khakis enjoying their dinners, some accompanied by attractive USO girls.

  Jim turned to me and winked. “Rank has its privileges, old buddy.”

  I turned to my left to see where Jim had been staring. A giggling, young, round eye woman, the slang used for Americans and Europeans, caressed an American colonel’s forearm. Our attention had been captured. The colonel had a slight paunch in his tight, pressed khakis. His greedy smile confirmed our thoughts: The young woman would be going back to his air-conditioned trailer for the night. I noticed the wedding band on his left hand.

  Returning my gaze to one of the windows facing the west and the darkened jungle and Mekong Delta region, I saw distant tracer rounds—ours in yellow, the enemy’s in red. It annoyed me the colonel lived a life of luxury while young draftees were dying in the damp and muddy Mekong Delta, fighting Charlie, the slang for the VC and NVA. This rear area officer was going to get laid in a s
oft bed while death made its rounds among the less fortunate young Americans in the jungle.

  “John, I think I’m going to explore the nightlife of Saigon. You should join me.” Jim was horny after scoping the colonel and his young thing.

  “You go ahead, Jim. You’re single. Enjoy. Besides, I’m looking forward to the hotel bed with clean sheets. Just be careful, and don’t get married to a lovely Vietnamese woman.”

  “No . . . no marriage for me, just some fun.” Jim grinned.

  “Hello, Captain Moore!” A familiar and menacing voice sent a chill down my back. My discussion with Jim had been harshly interrupted.

  Schaeffer and I turned around and looked up into the face of Colonel Hung, who stared down at me. His revolting smile tightened my stomach. Next to Hung stood another ARVN colonel, thin and slightly taller than Hung, with a scowl on his rodent face.

  We started to get up from the table, but Hung said, “Please, please, stay seated. May we join you and your friend?” His voice mellowed.

  I shrugged and extended my arm, pointing to the two empty chairs across from us. Jim, with his sense for danger, bristled and set his bottle of beer on the table. I felt Schaeffer’s tension—he was sitting erect and coiled like a tiger, a predator ready to attack. His beer buzz seemed to have evaporated. I put my right hand on Jim’s left forearm, signaling for him to cool it and leave the .45 alone. But Schaeffer stared at the two ARVN colonels, looking for any excuse to shoot them. His hatred for corrupt ARVNs came from seeing Americans die while some ARVNs enriched their lives. The ARVN officers sat down. Both laid their swagger sticks on the table in front of them. Out of my periphery, I saw that Jim had pulled his .45 pistol from his holster and placed it in his lap.

  “May I introduce my brother-in-law, Colonel Loan, commander of the Saigon Police?”

  The tension thickened like the humidity outside the air-conditioned restaurant. Both ARVNs looked at me sinisterly while Jim kept glaring, his unseen pistol at the ready.

  “My pleasure to meet you, Colonel Loan,” I said.

  “Well, Captain, we had a chance to track you down. We understand you are going north to the 101st Airborne to fight our NVA countrymen.” Loan sat with a smirk as Hung spoke.

  I nodded in frustration, knowing they could pull strings as allies to access US troop deployment details, a fact I didn’t relish. Individual and unit movements were deemed classified, and my intuition told me they communicated such information to the VC when it was beneficial for them.

  “You seem to know a great deal. Why do I have the pleasure of your company tonight, Colonel?” I said sarcastically.

  Loan interjected, pointing his finger at me. “Your attitude toward a senior allied officer is not appropriate! Remember you are our guests in Vietnam.”

  Jim’s face hardened as I said, “Colonels, I’m enjoying dinner here and have no desire to show any disrespect. Is there something we can do for you?”

  “Yes, yes, of course there is!” Colonel Hung said, eager to calm the situation as well. He epitomized the desk jockey, unlike his brother-in-law, who was a killer. “Your report of the ambush at the rubber plantation is delaying reparation funds to me for land that I own there. I would like you to modify the report so as to expedite the payments from your government and, of course, before you go up north. After all, you called in the artillery and destroyed the rubber trees on my acreage within the No Fire Zone of the Michelin Plantation. If you get killed up north, issues with the payments could go unresolved.”

  Jim blurted loudly to the whole table, “Do you mean the ambush where my friend here lost nine killed?” He leaned forward, daring them to make a move. “According to the rules of engagement, if the enemy attack American or South Vietnamese units from a No Fire Zone, the commander on the spot can dictate return fire of any sort.”

  Several diners stopped eating and turned toward our table—most of them senior-ranking US officers.

  “Jim, let me handle this,” I said, again patting his arm, feeling like I had a killer dog leashed at my side.

  “I will only speak to Captain Moore!” Hung glared at me, emboldened by Loan’s presence. “Change the report tonight. Put the VC outside the Plantation. That is an order from a superior allied officer.” Colonel Hung began to pick up his swagger stick, shaking with anger, trying to hide his fear.

  “Like hell he will,” said Jim. He stood up and stared down at the two ARVNs, who jerked into action and slid their chairs back, looking around the restaurant for support. Jim held his drawn .45 to his side, pointed to the floor, barely visible. I had never seen him this angry. The occupants at the other tables stared in disbelief. The romantic couple stopped their light petting; the American colonel’s eyes showed fear.

  I raised my hands, palms facing the ARVNs, and gestured for calmness. “I’m sorry for my friend’s outburst. We have had a long day and maybe too many beers. I will not change my report—it’s the truth. The VC fired on us from the rubber plantation—a No Fire Zone. They violated the rules and I called in artillery fire, as the commander on the ground, to save American lives. The previous commander was killed, and I flew in to take command, which is something you should be considering with your personal and greedy request. You can talk to my superiors if you wish.” I stood up next to Jim. “And now, excuse us.”

  Hung blurted something in Vietnamese to his brother-in-law. They both stood up. Loan pointed his fisted right hand at me, unfolded his index finger, and moved his middle finger as if he had pulled a trigger on a pistol, the thumb coming down like a pistol hammer. His rodent face grinned, his black eyes looking through me. And just as quickly, Hung and Loan turned and walked out of the room. I then definitely knew Loan as a killer.

  Schaeffer and I stared at their backs as they exited the restaurant. Jim still seethed. Nervous, I pondered what had happened, concerned for both of us. We had just pissed off two powerful and corrupt South Vietnamese officers. I wondered if this would get to some American senior officer and I would be dragged onto the carpet with an ass chewing or a written reprimand with ruinous impact on my career. I didn’t understand why Hung hadn’t gotten the reparation dollars. The American military command bent over backward to embrace the South Vietnamese, buying their support in the war against communism with a lenient reparation payment system. South Vietnamese President Thieu ran a feudal system, surrounded by greed, intent on becoming rich, even on the backs of the poor Vietnamese population. As long as the Americans supported this nepotism, they were sinking in the morass with them while young American troops died in the process.

  Jim startled me from my reverie. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “Yes, Captains, what was that all about?” Now the American Colonel stood by our table, his drunken conquest for the night draped around his left arm, giggling and eyeing Jim, flirting with him as well.

  Horny, Jim returned her smile, turned to the officer, and said, “What the f—”

  I grabbed Jim’s left arm, pinching him to shut him up. “Sir, those two ARVNs confused us with someone else, and I’m afraid the misunderstanding irritated both sides. Rest assured there’s nothing else. We’re all good.”

  Relieved, the colonel, showing off for his bimbo, said, “Well, see to it that there aren’t any repercussions, Captain. Those ARVN officers are fine gentlemen and our allies. They deserve the best treatment from us.” He swayed briefly as he attempted to stand straighter, trying to impress his pending lay, who still smiled at Jim—the officer too drunk to notice.

  His corpulent face revolted me, but I swallowed my pride. “No, sir, we’re good. Thanks for your concern and help.” It was pathetic but politically necessary BS, and I heard Jim snicker under his breath.

  “Well, goodnight. You two enjoy the evening.” He turned while the woman kept giggling and whispering to him as well as glancing back at Jim, mouthing something to him.

  Jim turned.
“What the fuck? Why suck up to that poor excuse of an officer? That SOB would have been dead in minutes in a combat line unit.”

  “Yeah, and so would have half his unit because he’s not a leader. Also, you’re drunk, and I just saved your ass and your career, so shut the fuck up around the brass, will you?”

  Jim finally smiled. “OK, OK . . . I know. I could have gotten into some serious shit with my mouth.” Then he changed the subject as quickly as the weather changes during monsoon season. “Did you see her? She wants me, man. That fat-ass colonel will only pass out on her. What a waste of good puss.”

  “Christ, Jim, anger and horniness, what a combo. Don’t forget you’re not in the boonies. You can’t just shoot ARVNs or American colonels. Get a hold of yourself.”

  “I’m sorry, John. I can’t see paying those two ARVN assholes a penny.”

  “Neither can I. That dickhead ARVN colonel doesn’t care about the loss of American lives. He just wants American dollars since he has small acreage overlapping the Michelin Rubber Plantation. The same acreage I took fire from.”

  “That sucks. The fucking corrupt bastard.” Jim looked at the entrance of the restaurant, as if he wished the two officers would return. He wanted the physical confrontation. “Those assholes almost ruined a good dinner,” he said.

  “Let’s get out of here. You do the red-light district, and I’m going back to the hotel to write to my wife and go to sleep. This is way too much excitement for one night.”

  Jim looked at me and said, “I don’t know. Maybe I should go back to the hotel with you.”

  “Jim, go have fun. I’ll be OK.”

  He nodded, concerned though as we walked out of the restaurant.

  Standing at the entrance of the Rex Hotel, I said, “Let’s meet for a late breakfast at the hotel before departing for Ben Hoa.”

  “OK. But lock your room.” Jim hailed a taxi for his night on the town as a young bachelor.

  I turned and began walking to the Continental Hotel to clear my head from a hell of an evening.