Message from Nam

by Danielle Steel

  Ralph dropped her off at the hotel, and went on to the AP office in the Eden Building. And as she walked across the lobby, she couldn’t believe how filthy she was. Her fatigues were still covered with dried blood, and dirt and sweat, and she looked awful. She ran into Nigel on the way, and he looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

  “My, my, you look like you’ve had a busy day, or did you cut yourself shaving?” His glibness irritated her, and she snapped at him as she pulled off her helmet.

  “We were in Nha Trang. And there were a lot of wounded.” They seemed a lot to her, and she felt tears sting her eyes as she said it.

  “Should I be surprised? I believe that’s why we’re all here.” He was a supercilious jackass, and his whole attitude annoyed her. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

  “I don’t know. I want to turn in my story.” Because of her arrangement with the Sun, she had no real deadlines, she was just going to send material in when she had it. But she wanted to get something off to them soon, to show them that she had come here to work, and she was serious about what she was doing.

  “Maybe we’ll catch you later. Did Ralph go home or to the office?”

  “I’m pretty sure he went to the office,” she said, sounding exhausted.

  “You’d better get some sleep. You look knackered.”

  “I am … see you later.…” And she had every intention of writing about what she’d seen, but as soon as she had a bath at her hotel, and lay down “just for a minute,” she fell asleep and when she woke up, it was dark and she was starving.

  She went downstairs to the dining room, and didn’t see anyone she knew. And when she tried to eat, she found she couldn’t. Even the pineapple froth she had developed a taste for when she first arrived tasted awful. All she could think of was what she’d seen at Nha Trang. And after a cup of bouillon, and some chao tom, little skewers of shrimp paste, she went back upstairs and sat down to write her story. She wrote until two a.m., and she cried when she tried to describe the boy from Miami, and the kid from Savannah. She realized that she didn’t even know his name. But even that didn’t matter. And when she was finished, she sat back in her seat, feeling drained, but relieved. Writing about them was almost like a catharsis.

  She tried to describe the beauty of Viet Nam, the contrast of what she’d seen, even in so little time, the horror of those maimed, the sleaziness of the hookers, the noises in the streets, and the incredible beauty driving north, the brilliant green, the rich red earth, and yet the whole country silently ravaged and bleeding, and our boys bleeding with it. Bleeding for it. It was a powerful piece and she was pleased, and she wondered what they would think of it in San Francisco.

  She went to bed at three a.m., and she was at the AP office the next day at nine o’clock, where she ran into Ralph, looking fresh and businesslike in a clean white shirt and khakis.

  “What are you up to, Delta Delta?” She smiled in spite of herself and he looked happy to see her.

  “Never mind that. I want to send off my story.”

  “Nha Trang?” he asked, and she nodded. “I inquired, by the way. All the boys they picked up the other day made it, except one”—her heart skipped a beat—“the one who didn’t was a black kid from Mississippi. So your boy must be doing fine. I thought that might make you happy.” She smiled in open relief and his eyes were gentle as he watched her. She was a good kid. She really was number one, top stuff. She had a lot to learn, but she was smart, and he liked her. “It doesn’t always work out that way. Maybe you brought him luck. He’ll be going home now.” That was one way to do it, with one arm. But on the other hand, he wasn’t going home in a body bag either. No “big PX in the sky” for him. “What are you doing today?” Ralph asked.

  “Looking for trouble,” she quipped, and he laughed.

  “Watch out. In this town, you’ll find it.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” If nothing else, there was always Nigel Aucliffe, or the slightly married Jean-Pierre, who was meeting his wife in Hong Kong that weekend.

  “Time magazine is giving a party in their offices tonight, at the Continental Palace. Want to go?”

  “Sure.” She wasn’t sure if it was a date or just a friendly invitation, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t looking for romance, and every contact she made would be helpful.

  “I’ll meet you there.” He glanced at his watch, and it was obvious he was in a hurry. “Six o’clock?”

  “Fine.” She spent the rest of the afternoon walking around Saigon again. And as she did, she was deeply affected by the children. They were so vulnerable and so young, and they looked so battered. And yet, if you sat at the cafés, they tried to sell you everything from heroin to cigarettes to stolen soft drinks. She knew she would write a story about them later. It was a strange world, a long way from the world she knew. But as she looked around her, she was glad that she had come here.

  She went back to her hotel at five o’clock, and changed into a flowered print silk dress, and a new pair of sandals, and then she walked down the Tu Do to the Continental Palace. It was easy to believe that this had been a lovely city once, when it was French. It still was lovely, in many ways, but just beneath the surface, one sensed a constant tension. Even sitting in the cafés, people were constantly aware that the enemy was everywhere, and a bomb could be hurled into their midst at any moment.

  When she got to the hotel, she walked past the action at the terrace bar, and as usual, she caught a glimpse of Nigel. He was entertaining two army nurses, one of them was sitting on his lap, and the other one was running her fingers through his hair and laughing. Paxton didn’t say anything and went quietly upstairs to the Time Inc. office.

  There was a nice crowd there, and Ralph was already waiting, engaged in animated conversation with the bureau chief, about the upcoming Democratic Convention in Chicago. There had been riots everywhere that year, ever since the murder of Martin Luther King, and the more recent killing of Robert Kennedy. And Ralph was making dire predictions.

  “I think it’s going to be a mess in Chicago.” And as he said it, he noticed Paxton. He greeted her with a warm smile, introduced her to everyone, and eventually guided her around the room with a practiced hand, while treating her like his little sister. She was very touched, and she told him so over a glass of Scotch after she had met everyone he thought was important.

  “I really mean it, Ralph. If it weren’t for you, I’d still be sitting in my hotel room.”

  “Maybe you’d be better off.” He took a long swig of bourbon. “I felt pretty guilty yesterday when we got back. Maybe Nha Trang was a little heavy for a first taste of what’s going on here.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said quietly, looking into his eyes, “that’s what I’m here for.”

  And then he grinned. “I was right, by the way. I did a little careful ‘investigating’ yesterday, when we got back. You’re the one everyone is supposed to be watching out for and taking to parties at the embassy and the Golden Ghetto.” It was once a fancy apartment building on Gia Long Street.

  “I hope no one figures that out.” She grinned.

  “They won’t.” He smiled in answer. “No one has time to baby-sit here. Speaking of which,” he looked at her cautiously, “are you interested in another mission? I’m going to Cu Chi, to do a story on the tunnels. I thought you might like it.”

  “I’d love it. Five o’clock again?”

  He laughed. She looked so serious and so anxious. “I’ll pick you up at eight. That should be plenty of time. And wear your combat gear again.”

  Paxton raised an eyebrow. “No tea parties at the officers’ club? My friends in San Francisco will be very disappointed.”

  He winked at her. “Don’t worry about it, Delta Delta, just send them some doughnuts.” She pretended to swing at him, and he ducked and left a few minutes later.

  She talked to a number of other reporters after that, and eventually she went back downstairs and avoided Nigel on the terrace. He
was extremely drunk by then, and was looking very amorous with one of the nurses. Paxton went back quietly to her hotel, had dinner in her room, and was asleep by ten o’clock. She was waiting for Ralph Johnson in the lobby at eight o’clock sharp the next morning.

  He had a different crew with him this time, a single photographer, and a different driver. And they had an army-issue jeep, and a young marine as their driver. He was a big friendly kid, with a redheaded crew cut and blue eyes, and a tattoo of a cowboy on his chest and he said he was from Montana. And Paxton tried not to smile when he said his name was Cowboy. He was nineteen years old and he’d been in Nam since the previous Christmas. He had six more months till he went home, but he said he was pretty happy there. He was temporarily assigned to the Information Agency, and he’d been driving reporters and visiting dignitaries all over the countryside. “And as long as we don’t hit no mines, or get shot at by no gooks, I like it fine.” He grinned at them, and Paxton decided he was a lucky kid. He could have been up north being shot at with the others.

  The drive to Cu Chi took forty-five minutes, and they spent most of it talking about horses and riding, and growing up, and eventually Ralph and Paxton started to talk about the story they wanted. The photographer they had with them was French. His name was Yves and he was a friend of Jean-Pierre. He kept to himself mostly, and spoke fairly limited English, which made him seem shy, but he really wasn’t. Ralph had worked with him before, and liked him very much, and he was pleased to have him along for the day’s mission. He was good and quiet and meticulous about his work, not unlike Paxton.

  “Cu Chi Base is an interesting place,” Ralph explained to Paxxie on the way. “It’s the headquarters of the 25th Tropic Lightning’ Infantry Division from Hawaii. They built the base more than two years ago, over the tunnels the VC had built there, and they figured they had them all sealed up. But they were wrong. The VC seem to keep right on operating right under their feet and they’ve had nothing but headaches with Cu Chi since they got there. It’s a huge base, and it’s right across the Saigon River from the Iron Triangle, where we’ve had some of the worst fighting all along.”

  “What are we doing there today?” She was grateful for every bit of information.

  “They’ve uncovered a whole new network of tunnels out there. I thought it might make a good story. The guys who deal with that shit are called tunnel rats, and they’re an amazing group. Tough as nails, with nerves of steel. You couldn’t get me into one of those tunnels for anything in this world. The VCs have a whole subterranean world down there. They tried to clear most of it out when they cleared the Iron Triangle last year. But that still didn’t do it.

  “They even found a whole hospital complex down there last year in Than Dien Forest, just north of the Iron Triangle. The VC are amazing little people.” There was a lot more to what the GIs referred to as the “gooks” and “dinks” than met the eye, and Ralph knew it. They were a sharp, wily, hardy, incredibly courageous people who would fight to the death against the ARVN, the army of the South, and the Americans who helped them.

  “Do you think I could go down into the tunnels?” Paxton asked with fascination, and Ralph shook his head with a look of horror.

  “Don’t do anything like that, Pax. It’s too dangerous and it makes me claustrophobic thinking about it.” He almost shuddered but she disagreed.

  “I think it would be fascinating.”

  “I think you’re crazy.” They rode the rest of the way in silence. She was impressed by how big Cu Chi Base was when they got there, and how well organized. It was a lot different than their trip to the firebase near Nha Trang two days before, until they were directed to a region well behind the base, still overgrown with vegetation. The heat seemed to rise from the brush, and there were troops everywhere, with bulldozers cutting down trees and bushes.

  “Put your flak jacket back on,” Ralph instructed her absentmindedly while saying something to Yves, and waving to someone in the distance.

  “Why?” The heat was stifling, and no one else had one on. Most of the men were working bare-chested with just their fatigue pants and combat boots. A number of them had even taken off their helmets. “No one else is wearing them.”

  “Do what I tell you to do,” he snapped, “they should be wearing them too. Cu Chi is famous for snipers.” She made a face and put the heavy vest back on, and then started to take off her helmet, but another glance from him stopped her. Like the troops, she had started carrying her suntan lotion and bug repellent in her helmet straps. And most of them carried their cigarettes there too, playing cards, and whatever other odds and ends they needed. She noticed that everyone kept their M-16’s nearby, and most of the men kept their standard issue .45’s tucked into their belts or in holsters. She had been warned when she arrived, not to carry arms, but in the past few days she had learned that many people did carry guns. You could buy almost anything on the black market. But she had no desire whatsoever to have one.

  And as Paxton rearranged her gear, a tall thin man walked up to them. He was the man Ralph had been waving to. He had sandy hair and light eyes, and an easygoing smile, but the tension in his eyes, and a constant wary air belied his casual manner.

  “Hello, Quinn. Looks like you’re keeping your boys busy.”

  Captain William Quinn, of the 25th Infantry shook hands with Ralph and Yves, and extended a friendly hand to Paxton. “Nice to have you all here.” And then he turned back to Ralph. “We found a beauty here this week, after I saw you. Christ, this mother must go clear back to Kansas.” He looked apologetically at Paxton, and as he gestured toward an area they had cleared, she noticed his wedding band. He was a good-looking man. He was thirty-two, had gone to West Point, and was career army.

  He looked at Paxton then, with a shy smile. “Do you work for the Associated Press too?” His eyes seemed to look deep into hers and for a moment she forgot what he had asked her. He was a very handsome man, and there was an aura of quiet power about him, an air of total control, and yet there was something more too, something faintly wild and maybe even a little crazy.

  “I … no, I’m from the Morning Sun in San Francisco.”

  “Nice town. I was based in the Presidio for a while before I came here.” And that was where he had left his wife, but he didn’t say that.

  “She’s my new protégoé,” Ralph explained with a smile. “Kind of reminds me of myself when I went to Korea. Although I think I was a lot less ballsy than she is,” he said by way of a compliment, and she thanked him.

  “Anytime, Delta Delta,” he teased as they followed Captain Quinn to the clearing. There were tools and equipment and men everywhere, and if you looked down at the ground, here and there you saw small holes, which barely looked big enough for a child to enter.

  “Christ, is that it?” Ralph looked amazed as he got down on the ground and peeked into one. Normally they were totally hidden and you could see no entrance at all, but Quinn and his men had uncovered all the openings they could find, so now you could see the tunnels more clearly. And you could even see the bamboo tubes they used for breathing when they were down there. “I assume they widen after a while.”

  But Bill Quinn shook his head. “Not always. They’re amazing little folks.” He said it almost with respect and humor. “It took us six days to blast the little buggers out of here. They’re a tenacious lot.”

  “Yeah.” Ralph nodded. “They always have been.”

  Bill Quinn showed them around, and Paxton asked if she could go in a few feet just to see what she could. Most of the Americans were even too big to fit, with their large bodies and broad shoulders. But she was lithe and supple and she wanted to see what was underground. She borrowed Yves’ camera and a light and followed one of the small, wiry tunnel rats, one of Quinn’s men, and after a few minutes she was breathless. She was pale and covered with dirt when she emerged, gasping a little, and more than a little frightened. There was still a smell of death down there, and the man who had gone with her
explained that they hadn’t “pulled them all out yet.” It was a horrifying thought to think of the dead VC decaying somewhere down there. But everything around them was like that. Nha Trang had been just as frightening in its own way, more so with the open firing and the desperately wounded. This was subtler and more ominous, even though the lieutenant assured them that all the tunnels were clear now, and the only VC down there were dead ones.

  “Do you use dogs?” she asked, still impressed by the experience, and he was impressed with her. She was the first American woman who had been willing to go down there. Even Yves, Ralph’s photographer, had been less than enthusiastic. But she was young and smart and interested, and that made a difference. And she was also very pretty, the captain had noted, when she freed her cascade of blond hair from her helmet. Very pretty. And he felt as though he’d been at Cu Chi forever.