by Ed Marohn
“Mr. Moore, are you ready for Vietnamese dinner?”
“Yes, and may I compliment you on how nice you look?”
She paused and studied me with her dark eyes, nodded, and then turned away, hiding any emotions, no different from the professional, driven police agent I had worked with the last two days. On the other hand, I had settled on her acceptance of me as an ally—not a former enemy. As we walked out the door, she strode by my side. I don’t think I had seen her smile yet.
“The last Vietnamese dinner I had was in a Montagnard village in 1969. I ate fish, rice, and nuoc mom,” I said.
“Oh, the smelly fish sauce! Do you like?” She gave a slight nod, not revealing much of her thinking on the matter.
“Actually, it is tasty, but the smell . . . ” I said. “But the worst had to be the Montagnards strong rice wine that they brewed and expected visitors to their tiny villages to drink. I think that drink can destroy the brain.”
She nodded again and continued to study the street as we walked the four blocks toward her apartment. Further conversation dried up at that point. I followed her example and walked in silence. Near her apartment building, an old woman in black silk pajamas passed us with a gong ganh astride her shoulder, a wooden pole with hanging baskets at each end loaded with produce and packs of rice. Even at this hour, under the streetlights, peasants were moving food and other items to their open-door shops.
“Mr. Moore, you may be disappointed with dinner or our small apartment tonight. I know Americans live in big houses, but we have to accept the limited space here in Hanoi.”
“Why would I be disappointed?” I felt stereotyped for being an American.
She ignored me and took longer strides toward the apartment building.
Reaching the lobby door, she turned to me and said, “Remember, you will have to carry your pistol regularly here—as an American, you are not completely safe—too many feelings from the war.”
The words sent a slight chill down my spine.
Hanoi, January 3, 2003
The next morning, I woke at six and decided to do an hour workout in the hotel’s fitness center. After forty minutes on the treadmill at a sharp incline and mid-speed, I sweated like a plow horse on a hot, humid day. I switched to the weight machines to tone up my muscles. I needed to return to my yoga routine, but not today. As I worked out, I thought about dinner last night.
Hieu’s husband, a professor of mathematics at Hanoi University, greeted me politely and with a big smile. He questioned me about my profession, as well as about professorships at American colleges. US politics were also peppered into the conversation. He knew a great deal about the US, more than I did about Vietnam. He had prepared dinner and revealed that he did this often since Hieu’s job often meant long and irregular hours, but he respected her career, the money, and the class status of working for the socialist government.
Their three boys, still in grade school, talked to me, trying out school English, but they were mostly mesmerized by the tall American in their small apartment. After they became used to me, they reverted to eating and talking among themselves, glancing occasionally at me. Dinner was bun thit nuong, thinly sliced and grilled pork over noodles and vegetables, with hot tea and a rice wine, ruou nep, thick and sticky on the tongue, and strongly alcoholic. I enjoyed the family event, using chopsticks rather than the utensils that were placed on the table for me. That met approval by Hieu’s husband.
Watching Hieu, who became a gracious host, serving everyone, ensuring our wine glasses were full, made me think of Katy and now Sally, who I had lost as well. Being eight thousand miles from home and lonely, working with a woman who probably thought Americans were barbarians, added to my down mood. Hieu didn’t like the wine and stayed with Huda Beer, a Vietnamese brew. She relaxed among her family—her boys’ antics even made her smile. Still, when she looked at me, her stone face returned. Her babysitting me the last two days probably didn’t jive with her high level of responsibility within the National Police ranks.
After dinner, the boys cornered me and pumped me about cowboys and Indians. They had seen old John Wayne westerns, and for them that was the basis for the US. I’m afraid I didn’t help matters by telling them stories about how Indians scalped people. They listened intently, their imaginations running wild.
By midnight we all decided it was time to call it a night, and Hieu, acting as my security, accompanied me down the stairs from her apartment to the street and looked for a cab.
“It’s OK. I need the fresh air, and I can see the hotel. Only four blocks, you know. And thank you for the nice dinner.”
She stood looking around, trying to decide. The night air chilled me, and I started to walk away from her.
“I will walk with you,” she said.
“No, don’t bother yourself,” I said and wondered if she noticed my aloofness. “See you tomorrow. And again, thanks for the evening.” I left her there, probably glaring, but certainly not smiling.
At ten, I was waiting for Hieu in the lobby dressed in jeans, a yellow sweater, and my black leather jacket, wearing my harnessed pistol underneath. Hieu appraised me coldly as she entered the lobby while her driver and car waited for us. She wore jeans, a blue sweater, and a black leather jacket, her long black hair bunched into a ponytail under a light blue New York Yankees baseball cap. The slight bulge under her left arm conveyed she had her weapon as well.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked. Without waiting for my response, she gave me a black Yankees baseball cap. “This will help with protection from the sun and also help our agents identify us in Da Nang.”
I smiled and said, “Thanks.” I put the cap on, grinning to myself, knowing that it wouldn’t be hard to find me, a tall, white American. A round eye. “Thank you again for letting me share your dinner. You have a nice family.”
“You are kind, but we have much to do today, so let us go to the airport.” Hieu maintained her professional mode, focused on the job, organized, and constantly thinking. “You have checked out already and left unnecessary clothes to hold for your return?”
“Yes. I left my suit and other extras with the front desk.”
Hieu nodded and walked past the door held open by the bellman. I followed her long strides to the car for the drive to Hanoi’s Noi Bai Airport and our flight to Da Nang. As we walked, I swallowed my daily pill followed by a mouthful of water from my water bottle. Prior to leaving the States, I had started taking the one-a-day Malarone pill for protection against malaria, reminiscent of the daily ritual for all US soldiers during the war. Hieu watched me swallow the pill; I decided she had no such protection and made a mental note to share my meds with her once we arrived in Da Nang. I wondered if she trusted me enough to take the pills.
Da Nang, January 3, 2003
At Hanoi’s airport, we processed through security without delay, escorted by police agents, our weapons checked and placed in a special container onboard. I enjoyed the VIP treatment, avoiding lines and skipping the mundane process of checking in and getting seat assignments.
Hieu insisted that I take the aisle seat while she sat next to me by the window on the Vietnam Airlines Airbus A321. She took advantage of the hour-and-fifteen-minute flight to brief me on Tet, which is a movable date depending on the start of the lunar year. Her tone indicated pride in the country’s customs.
The year 2003 started on February 1. There are four sacred mythological creatures revered by the Vietnamese during Tet: the turtle, the unicorn, the phoenix, and the dragon. All four are celebrated at home, during festivals, and in parades. Hieu reminded me that the phoenix legend was used by the CIA to name their extermination program of the communist cells in the South Vietnamese countryside. When she talked of that program, I noticed the sadness on her face. I avoided that topic for now.
The Vietnamese take the Tet celebration seriously and spend enormous sums for the holida
y, in many cases going into debt. It is important that the family and all living generations are seen as prosperous in order to secure a good life going forward. The first-footing, or the first official guest invited to appear at the home, is carefully selected to be distinguished, if possible, with wealth, no divorces, and no family deaths within the year, all to ensure good luck and prosperity for the inviting family. The parents’ homes, usually located in the villages and smaller towns, become the focal point for family members who come from all over Vietnam and other countries, leaving the big cities, shutting down commercial activity for three days. Many people start traveling to their childhood homes days or weeks before the main dates, effectively making the holiday much longer than three days. As Hieu explained, we would become entangled in all the travel congestion the closer February 1 approached.
“Also, Tet is considered everyone’s birthday. We do not celebrate individual birthdays in Vietnam, but during Tet, everyone adds another year to their age.”
“You make a great tour guide,” I said.
“Hopefully we can finish this business soon and I will be your tour guide for Hanoi and the rest of Northern Vietnam. Colonel Tin insists on it. It is a wonderful country.” Hieu looked at me, her pride showing.
Did I notice an inkling of friendliness?
“I’d like that.” The silence ensued again.
“This mission is a priority, however,” she said.
“Agreed,” I said and looked away.
On our final approach to Da Nang airport, I noticed the almost forty-year-old concrete bunkered hangers used by the US Air Force during the Vietnam War—now used by my former enemy. Da Nang had been mortared regularly, thanks to the VC observers hidden in nearby Marble Mountain, which overlooked the city and the base. The abandoned concrete jet hangers had in effect become historical monuments of the war.
We landed on time, and as we exited the terminal, a driver with a Mercedes SUV waited for us. Hieu chattered with the driver, a Da Nang police agent. He finally gave her the keys and went to a black Fiat parked nearby, got in the passenger side, and departed with his driver.
“We are ready. The vehicle is prepared with two AK-47s in the weapons case in the back seat, two field packs with energy bars and extra bottles of water, and good topographical maps of the My Son area, including nearby villages and the Laotian border.”
She explained that to ensure my security, we had adjoining hotel rooms at the Palm Garden Resort in Hoi An. The new beach resort would serve as our base of operations. The Da Nang office of the National Police had already contacted the man we needed to meet at the Cham museum.
“His name, as we know, is Quan, and he expects us, although I imagine he will be very nervous. Police agents in our country tend to frighten people,” she said without any qualms.
“So do the police in the US,” I said.
She seemed to decipher my statement. Then she asked, “Do you know how to use the AK-47 rifle?”
“Unfortunately, I do.” Saddened, I avoided explaining my use of the NVA automatic rifle during the Vietnam War, dropped by its owner as he died at my feet, killed by the last round of my .45-caliber pistol. I was forced to pick up his AK-47 and shoot it in bursts at the remaining NVA charging into our landing zone. That was the day I lost my RTO, my radiotelephone operator, killed by an exploding enemy mortar round just as we jumped from the Huey’s skid pads onto the ground. His deadly gut wound ended his young life at nineteen. The scene of mangled bodies—Americans and NVA embracing each other in their death grips, their last efforts to survive, and their failure—still haunted me.
Hieu stared at me, trying to comprehend my darkened mood, not knowing that I had gone back in time. But she didn’t pursue the matter.
I loaded our baggage into the rear of the Mercedes while she started up the SUV. There was an FM field radio mounted on the front dash for secure communication with her people. As we drove out of the airport parking lot, I felt déjà vu from over thirty years ago, when I had climbed into an army jeep in Long Binh, carrying my M16 rifle and .45-caliber pistol, wearing a flak vest and helmet, joining a convoy to head in-country and to war.
Da Nang is part of former South Vietnam, and even in the winter months it’s humid. The wet, warm air took me back to those initial days at Long Bien, near Saigon, and I recalled observing the first body bags filled with dead Americans, the human cost of war, waiting to be processed.
Hieu drove as my thoughts of war burst in small flashes of the events and battles, and those endless faces of my dead men. I didn’t talk about the war, yet she sensed the reason for my fugue and waited me out. As I looked out the window at the passing panorama, she sporadically examined me with her dark and penetrating eyes, saying nothing.
We had decided to meet with Quan in Da Nang before going to our hotel in Hoa An, located south of Da Nang with close access to the highway to My Son. Hieu drove into Da Nang, asking me to help look for 01 Trung Nu Vuong Street. I had the Da Nang city map spread out on my lap and helped as much as a stranger could. We were both new to the city. I had only been to the now-defunct US airbase during the war, passing through on my way to Phu Bai and the 101st Airborne Division, whereas Hieu had never been this far south of Hanoi in her whole life.
By mid-afternoon, we pulled up to the Da Nang Museum of Cham Sculpture and, having official police tags, parked by the entrance, ignoring the no parking signs. Within minutes we found our man. In 1973, Quan fled his village of Giang, over forty miles away, or sixty kilometers in metric terms, when he lost his father at age twelve. He appeared about forty, with a face lined with wrinkles from a stressful life spent living in war since the day he was born. He didn’t resemble the typical Vietnamese, and Hieu explained to me, between interpreting Quan’s answers, that he was part of the Cham bloodline, heavily influenced by descendants from India. As a different race, the Chams fought the Vietnamese for control of Vietnam from 200 to 1471 AD, establishing the Kingdom of Champa in the Central Highlands. About 1471 the Vietnamese defeated the Champa Kingdom and reduced it to a territory, eventually forcing the surviving members of the royal family and some of its subjects to flee to Cambodia in 1720, leaving the remaining Cham people to fend for themselves.
The frail Quan didn’t resemble the Cham warriors of the 1400s, who dared to oppose the Vietnamese; he acted nervous as Hieu interrogated him. He claimed that his father, who was the village elder, and the other adult male villagers had been forced by ARVN soldiers and two Americans to march southwest from the village of Giang. None returned. As the eldest son, Quan took his younger brother, sisters, and mother to hide that first night in the nearby bamboo forest, as his father had instructed him to do whenever ARVNs showed up in the area. The area was VC-controlled, and the village had been previously brutally attacked by operatives of the Phoenix Program. He still remembered the name of the program used to eliminate any communists in the villages.
The next day, there was still no sign of the villagers who had been taken away. Quan then carefully followed the tracks of the two APCs and the big dozer, as he called the Rome plow. He walked in the brush and jungle to avoid being seen, paralleling the imprints in the ground formed by the armored vehicles’ metal tracks. About eight kilometers (five miles) southwest of the village, he saw that the tracks stopped at the jungle overgrown with large banyan trees, sacred and lucky to both the Cham and Vietnamese. It was very quiet, and he carefully approached where the tracks entered the heavily wooded area but saw that much brush and dirt had been piled to cover the trail. Frightened, he continued to explore the area and, less than a kilometer from a grove of banyan trees near the trail, he found the mass grave where some hundred villagers were buried, including his father. He wept over the spot for hours, not understanding why his father was killed.
As I heard the story through Hieu, I sensed inconsistencies, but not knowing the area, I listened without interjecting my questions.
&
nbsp; A week later, he left home to work in Da Nang to raise money for his struggling mother and his siblings. He saved the family by bringing them to the city; he never returned to the village of Giang. I looked at Hieu and knew this would change as she barked some orders at Quan while he bowed, acknowledging his obedience to police authority. Hieu took charge, not sugarcoating her authority.
“He is very willing to accompany us to Giang to help us search for the hidden APCs, which the government wants returned,” she said to me, a conspiracy in the making, not knowing how much English Quan understood and not exposing our real mission. “He will be brought to us in Hoi An tomorrow by agents from the Da Nang office.”
After checking into the hotel, an upscale resort overlooking the South China Sea and its beautiful beaches, we met at the pool area to cool off and refresh ourselves before dinner. Hieu pleasantly shocked me when I arrived at the pool to see her in the striking beige bikini, she had bought in the resort’s gift shop, enjoying the perks of the trip, waiting for me while I bought swim shorts in the same shop. She acted bemused when I showed up in multicolored, Hawaiian floral swim trunks, which reached below my knees. They were the only ones in the shop that fit me. She dove into the pool and started swimming laps.
“You look great,” I said, talking to myself as she continued swimming. I sat down on the edge of the pool and watched her stroke through the water.
Completing her laps, Hieu swam over to me and pulled herself up to sit on the edge of the pool by me, dangling her feet in the water, mirroring the slow movement of my feet. “You are different from my perception of Americans.”
I shrugged, not knowing how to answer. I studied her tight and firm body, well-toned, graceful, and solid, with no fat, proof of her dedication to regular workouts. In a tight situation with bad guys, she could no doubt handle herself very well.