Mr. Nhi’s shoulders sagged, his chin resting on his chest. At last, he reached for the machete and rose to his feet. The legionnaires cheered. Next to Mohammed, Mr. Nhi looked ridiculously small and childlike, his head level with the Algerian’s chest. The eighteen-inch machete dangled at his side, pointed at the ground.
Grinning, the legionnaires fetched whisky bottles from their packs and began to drink. The commander swigged from a bottle and lit a cigar. He made a joke in French and let out a long cackle. The men laughed and wagered on the fight.
The cigar clenched between his teeth, Mohammed circled his prey, the long saber at ready. Mr. Nhi turned, but did not raise his puny weapon. Despite his size, Mohammed was very fast. He stepped forward and, with a snappy tap, knocked the machete out of Mr. Nhi’s hand. Before Mr. Nhi realized what happened, Mohammed’s fist caught him flush on the mouth and sent him spinning into the dirt. The men threw back their heads and hooted. An Arab tossed Mr. Nhi the machete.
Old men and women who remained in the village gathered in the street and the neighboring houses. I kept looking around, half expecting the Resistance forces to storm the village and rescue Mr. Nhi. The Resistance killed those they suspected of collaborating with French, and the French killed those they suspected of collaborating with the Resistance. And both sides demanded information, resources, and men from the villages. There was nothing a nonpartisan peasant could do.
When Mr. Nhi picked up the weapon again, something had come over him. He rose into a fighting stance and brought the machete to bear on the Algerian. Like many men of his generation, he had some training in martial arts in his youth and was not entirely inept. The Arabs cheered, pleased that there would be a fight after all. Mohammed harrumphed and flourished the saber above his head. He was evidently an experienced swordsman.
Mohammed delivered the first blows slowly so his inexperienced opponent could fend them. Metal rang against metal in a rhythm dictated by the Algerian. It was as if they were playing a game, or the Algerian was teaching Mr. Nhi to fight. Several times, the Algerian playfully slapped Mr. Nhi with the flat of his weapon. Mohammed pulled back and laughed, seemingly pleased. Over and over, he swooped in from a distance, each time gentling nicking his opponent’s arm or leg, enough to hurt but not maim. After each cut, he stood back and regarded his swordsmanship. His men hollered encouragement. Mr. Nhi staggered, gasping and covered in blood. In a sudden burst of energy, he lunged, nearly catching the Algerian on his blade. The soldiers parted and tripped Mr. Nhi with a foot. They encircled him again.
The men jeered, “He nearly got you!”
“Gut the pig already. We’re getting hungry!”
Growling, Mohammed raised his saber high above his head. The blows fell: one, two, three, four. Somehow Mr. Nhi parried them all and mounted his own attack. The Algerian swatted away the machete almost casually. It was a crude and heavy tool for clearing bushes. It was simply too short to penetrate the saber’s reach. Mr. Nhi pressed his attack, but he was hampered by his injured leg. It was futile. With each thwarted offense, he cursed and grew bolder and more desperate.
Mohammed toyed with the man until the game bored him. He feigned a retreat, then lunged, the saber flashing across the gap. The machete fell to the ground. Mr. Nhi’s right arm hung limp and useless at his side. The cut on his forearm had gone through to the bone. He wobbled on his feet, breaths ragged. He did not beg; his eyes brimmed with scorn.
A cheer for the dying man rose in my throat. It was a precious moment of awe. He was an insignificant peasant, made from the very stuff that formed all of us. Though nothing remained of him, neither his strength nor his limbs, he stood defiant.
Blind to the valor before them, the Arabs cheered for their commander to finish the kill. The Algerian grinned and circled his victim. He stepped closer, his blade poised high. A steel arc glinted in the sunlight. It swept past Mr. Nhi’s face without appearing to make contact, though a red gash started to widen in Mr. Nhi’s throat. He clutched it, trying to stem the leak. His legs buckled and he slipped to the ground. Blood gurgled out of his throat. He lay on his side, legs churning as though trying to run. His wife and mother fainted. An audible shudder went through the crowd. We watched him shake and jerk and twitch until his last breath quieted. There was so much blood.
Mohammed puffed on his cigar and watched his victim’s death throes. The Arabs passed him the whisky bottle. It had been a good show. The Algerian rolled Mr. Nhi onto his back, then cut open his belly, from groin to ribcage. Coils of intestines spilled out onto the ground. Mr. Nhi died with his eyes open, his bowels a bloody heap in the dirt.
“Look and remember. You can hide nothing from me!” the Algerian shouted, sweeping his saber over the villagers. “You are to leave this pig here for the birds and the dogs. He is not to be touched until I return.”
“Roast the pigs!” Mohammed shouted.
His men torched the hay bales and the house.
“Get out!” the neighbors shouted to the women inside the house.
Screams came from within. As quick as dry kindling, the thatch roof caught fire. Glowing embers and black smoke curled up to the sky. Mrs. Nhi and her mother-in-law dragged the grandfather out the back door. The children followed behind, coughing. Mohammed and his men chortled. Once the house had become a bonfire, the legionnaires gathered their loot and sauntered to our estate, where they would gorge themselves with drinks and foods.
Gusts of heat rolled from the fire. I sweated, sitting in the tree. Villagers hurried to draw water and douse the adjacent houses. During the dry season, a fire like this could wipe out the entire village. We sat in the branches a long time, watching flames consume the house. I looked at Tan. We were not ashamed of our tears. Our world had been irrevocably changed. I surely did not cry out of fear. The giant Algerian had lost his mystery. He was still every bit a monster, but I saw his heart. It was the heart of a coward.
Somehow he had reduced himself with his own brutality. A small, frail farmer had stood up to this giant. We too were capable of fighting.
THAT night, people buried Mr. Nhi with his father. Monks blessed their graves under a pale crescent moon. In the wee hours, more than twenty young men, single women, and boys our age left the village. Tan and I ached to slip into the darkness with them and join the Resistance.
It was as much a desperate act of salvage as redemption. It was a matter of honor.
THE NORTH
1948
22. THE RESISTANCE FIGHTER
One night right after the New Year celebration, Vi, the orphan, came back wearing brown pajamas and sandals. We barely recognized him. Gardener Cam’s adopted son—our famine project—had grown into a tall, lean young man. His boyish round face had squared into an almost chiseled look. He had shaved off his unruly tangles, leaving only monk’s fuzz on his head. Vi used to be as dark as a buffalo boy. Now he was as pale as an office clerk. His voice had broken into a man’s baritone. His eyes, however, were the same—small, narrow, and serious. The huge mole in the middle of his forehead was as ominous as ever.
His visit came as a big surprise. We had assumed Vi had died in battle because we hadn’t heard from him since he disappeared almost three years ago. Everyone in the estate gathered in the dining hall to welcome him. The women complimented him on how mature he looked and swamped him with questions. Everyone was very nice to him. It was the most attention he’d ever received. Vi was gregarious, joking and tousling the heads of the little ones. He sipped his tea and answered questions patiently like a real adult. He exuded power and authority.
One of my little cousins chirped, “Vi! Vi! You remember when we used to call you Dumpling-Face-Boy?”
The women gasped, mortified, but Vi just chuckled and patted the boy’s head. Aunt Thao told the kid to be quiet.
Old Cam asked the one question that had bothered him since Vi left. “Why didn’t you write? We were so worried.”
“Oh, Uncle, it’s against the rules. And besides, we were so b
usy moving from one assignment to the next, we never had time to write.”
“Brother Vi, why don’t you have a gun?” asked Chau, the perennial buffalo boy.
Vi laughed easily. “I had several guns before, but I don’t need them for my new work now.”
Tan said, “Is it communication or intelligence?”
Vi just smiled and wouldn’t say anything. The kids clamored for him to tell, but he replied, “I wouldn’t be a good Resistance fighter if I disobeyed my orders and revealed my assignment to you, would I?”
Aunt Thuan hushed the kids and turned to Vi. “Well, son, now that you’re back home again, we’ll prepare a private room for you—in the old guards’ wing, because you’re a fighting man now.”
Vi said he would like that. He was still active in his unit, so he would only come and spend the night when it was safe. He said his group was stationed nearby and that he would be back regularly to gather information on the French. Vi asked my mother when my father would be coming home. She said he wouldn’t be back until the situation in the countryside stabilized. I noticed she avoided saying that Father was afraid the Resistance might assassinate him as they did his brother.
Vi didn’t stay long that night. He left laden with sacks of food and money donated to his unit by Aunt Thuan and Mother.
GARDENER Cam couldn’t stop talking about Vi for days. He was very happy and proud of his adopted son. Most people were glad to see Vi because it meant that the estate had more favor with the Resistance. But some disagreed, saying that we were in greater danger of being punished by the French legionnaires if they found out someone from our estate was in the Resistance. Both the French and the Resistance had their own informants. Khi, our old guard, said the Viet Minh sent members of well-to-do families back home to collect money and supplies, and that Vi’s information gathering was just an excuse. The Resistance certainly knew much more than we did. Aunt Thuan and my mother didn’t say anything, but I knew they were aware of the precarious balance they had to maintain to appease both the French and the Resistance. Troops from both sides regularly stopped at our estate to eat, rest, and gather supplies.
Over the next five months, Vi visited us once or twice a week, often staying overnight if the French had already stopped at our village that day. The legionnaires never patrolled or entered villages at night. Vi knew their movements and was always very relaxed at the estate. For the adults, he took on the roles of underground liaison and protector. For the young children, Vi was their own hero. For Tan and me, Vi was a guide into the world of the Resistance. He told us everything we had ever wanted to know about fighting the French, the camaraderie of the Resistance, and our patriotic duties.
Slowly but inevitably, the stories of his years away seeped from Vi like unbearable secrets. We listened to him carefully, as though our future depended on his stories—and in a way, it did. We were fourteen and torn between two loyalties: our family’s generational allegiance to the Nationalists and our own patriotic need to join the Resistance to strike back at the French. I didn’t know it then, but we were searching for the proper rationale to join the Resistance, struggling to conjure a good reason why the Resistance—whose core was the Viet Minh—wasn’t responsible for the murders of Tan’s father and our cousin Quyen.
Night after night, Vi sat up late with Tan and me by the lake and told us about his adventures. Perhaps he knew it the whole time: Our lives hung in the balance. Our decisions would be based on what he had to say.
THE night Vi decided to join the Resistance, he simply stuffed his worldly belongings into a sack and followed the fighters who had stopped at our estate for provisions. He told no one his plans and did not say good-bye.
Vi was lucky to have attached himself to a crackerjack group—one of the most daring platoons in the local Resistance forces. They were forced to march through the nights, crossing the flatland back and forth at a crushing pace to attack multiple French camps. Their endurance was renowned, their exploits legendary. Villagers fed and sheltered them, celebrating them like heroes. It was an addictive introduction to life as a Resistance fighter.
They sent Vi through an underground network into the mountains, where he spent the next five months at a training camp hidden deep in the forest. There were more than a hundred children as young as ten barracked in makeshift shacks. Vi felt at home among the many orphans. The twenty-six-year-old commander was the oldest person present. The training was difficult and dangerous. The instructors were demanding, but they were also supportive like older brothers and sisters. They taught him the value of independence and freedom, and told stories of Vietnamese heroes and the victorious battles of the people. And there was also time for songs and dances and nights around the campfire celebrating life. In the camp, he found the sense of family and camaraderie. It was the happiest time of his life.
Vi spent the first year in a light-foot brigade based in the north-west region of the rice plain. A beautiful young scout took him under her wing in a sisterly way and taught him the details of guerilla life. She had full red lips and a mole beneath her left eye. The village midwife had said hers would be a life of tears. In her hand, the lifeline faded to nothing at the center of her palm. After her lover was killed in battle, she had vowed not to take another. Vi had fallen for her, and as the seasons passed, the weight of his infatuation became crushing. When she died in an ambush, he knew life held nothing else for him but the Resistance. He was ready to give his life for the cause.
Vi became the enemy’s greatest fear, a soldier who could not be bought; a fighter to whom honor, courage, and sacrifice were the measures of a man. He lived the Resistance creed that every leader must have been a proven follower with courage and sacrifices to his credits; that a leader could order no task that he had not performed himself. These were the shining demands Vi willingly fulfilled. With Vi’s valor came promotions. A year later, he was a platoon leader with twelve young fighters. Vi was seventeen.
VI’S last battle was at Cao Bang. It was part of a major campaign to destroy a French camp that controlled the mountain pass. His platoon was one of the crack demolition units chosen for their expertise in destroying barbed-wire fences.
They marched through the night, passing a number of checkpoints, and arrived at the staging grounds in the early morning hours. While the troops rested, the platoon leaders followed a local guide to survey the enemies’ camp.
Just after sunrise, they came to an observation spot hidden in the rocks high on a mountain slope. The rain had stopped. The sky was thick and marshy. The valley mist faded in layers and revealed the French camp in a murky light. It squatted at a fork in the road like a monstrous sentinel, its back against the mountain, drowsy and morose, confident in its invincibility. The enemies were still asleep. A thin strand of white smoke rose from the mess hall chimney. The three barbed-wire fences, each as tall as a man, stretched around the rectangular perimeter of the camp. Between the inner two fences, there was a wide trench filled with stagnant water; it held the reflection of the sky, a dark forbidding ribbon.
He felt predatory. His enemies were not secure; they were bound by their own fences and walls. He knew with delicious certainty that the Resistance would take the enemies. It was a pity, he thought, that the enemies did not know doom was at their gates. He felt a childish urge to shout down into the valley and make his presence known.
Someone handed him a field glass. When he examined the fort, he understood at last the full scope of the campaign, the magnitude of which was several times larger than anything he had experienced. He had memorized the camp’s details given at the operation briefing. The minefields surrounding the camp were covered with high weeds. Twenty feet from the innermost fence lay a formidable wall of sandbags that from a distance looked like a raised mud dike. Four machine-gun towers situated at the corners of the camp defended the wall. Within the fortifications several wooden buildings formed a horseshoe facing the camp’s main entrance. The buildings were all one story high with sandb
ags laid like tiles on top of the corrugated metal roofs. The defenders, two hundred legionnaires and fifty Vietnamese traitors, had six mortars and eight more machine-gun nests scattered within and around the buildings. At the far side of the camp were a long storage shed, an underground bunker, and two cannons that the French used to shell the insurgency. On the steep slope rising from the back of the camp, three camouflaged machine-gun bunkers guarded the camp below. These must be taken the moment the attack started. Their entire campaign depended on it.
At nightfall, the Resistance forces began amassing under the eaves of the forest. Two companies had crawled ahead of the main force to the very edge of the minefield. They had been resting in the sodden weeds for hours. This was their honor—the first wave, the suicide squads whose lives would clear a path for their comrades.
The occasional flare popped into the sky, breaking the stillness. The landscape looked mournful in the descending yellow light. From beneath the foliage, the drizzle fluttered in the pale glow like a silk scarf hung from the clouds’ bellies. Vi was wet, his straw hat soaked. A chill had wormed its way through the cotton jacket and into his chest. The cold sapped strength as well as courage. He rubbed his arms and chest and stomped his feet to keep warm. He was past exhaustion. His heart thumped like a drum in his chest. He felt the anxious presence of his platoon. It was a desperate mission. They all knew it.
Suddenly mortars exploded in small flashes all over the camp and on the mountainside behind. The enemies launched half a dozen flares at the same time. At the edge of the minefield, the men moved forward, their camouflage looking like a massive ripple in the under-growth. The mines threw up geysers of earth and bodies—a few at first, then everywhere at once. Searchlights on the towers blazed down on the attackers, and the machine guns followed the beams and began raking the ground. Mortars from within the camp fell on the field, setting off even more mines. The earth heaved under the onslaught. The remainder of the two companies continued to advance, clearing the minefield with their lives. The drizzle thickened into rain.
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