by Bao Ninh
Kien had perhaps watched more killings and seen more corpses than any contemporary writer. He had seen rows of youthful American soldiers, their bodies unscathed, leaning shoulder to shoulder in trenches and dugouts, sleeping an everlasting sleep because artillery barrages had blocked their exit, sucking life from them. Parachutists still in their camouflaged uniforms lying near bushes around a landing zone in the Ko Leng forest, burning in the hot noon-day sun, with only hawks above and flies below to covet their bodies. And a rain of arms and legs dropping before him onto the grass by the Sa Thay river during a night raid by B52s. Hamburger Hill, after three days of bloody fighting, looked like a dome roof built with corpses. A soldier stepping onto a mine and being blown to the top of a tree, as if he had wings. Kien’s deaths had more shapes, colours and reality of atmosphere than anyone else’s war stories. Kien’s soldiers’ stories came from beyond the grave and told of their lives beyond death.
‘There is no terrible hell in death,’ he had once read. ‘Death is another life, a different kind to that we know here. Inside death one finds calm, tranquillity and real freedom…’
To Kien dead soldiers were fuzzier yet sometimes more significant than the living. They were lonely, tranquil and hopeful, like illusions. Sometimes the dead manifested themselves as sounds rather than shadows. Others in the MIA team gathering bodies in the jungles said they’d heard the dead playing musical instruments and singing. They said at the foot of Ascension Pass, deep inside the ancient forest, the ageless trees whispered along with a song that merged into harmony with an ethereal guitar, singing, ‘O victorious years and months, O endless suffering and pain…’.
A nameless song with a ghostly rhythm, simple and mysterious, that everyone had heard, yet each said they’d heard different versions. They said they listened to it every night and were finally able to follow the voice trail to where the singer was buried. They found a body wrapped in canvas in a shallow grave, its bones crumbled. Alongside the bones lay a hand-made guitar, intact.
True or not? Who’s to know. But the story went on to say that when the bones were lifted to be placed in a grave all those present heard the song again echoing through the forest. After the burial the song ended, and was never heard again.
The yarn became folklore. For every unknown soldier, for every collection of MIA remains, there was a story.
Kien recalled the Mo Rai valley by the Sa Thay river when his group found a half-buried coffin. It had popped up like a termite hill on a riverbank, so high even the floods hadn’t reached it. Inside the coffin was a thick plastic bag, similar to those the Americans used for their dead, but this one was clear plastic. The soldier seemed to be still breathing, as though in a deep sleep. He looked so alive. His handsome, youthful face had a serious air and his body appeared to be still warm, clothed in a uniform that was still in good condition.
Then before their eyes the plastic bag discoloured, whitening as though suddenly filled with smoke. The bag glowed and something seemed to escape from it, causing the bag to deflate. When the smoke cleared, only a yellowish ash remained.
Kien and his platoon were astounded and fell to their knees around it, raising their hands to heaven praying for safe flight for the departed soul. Overhead a flock of geese, flying solemnly and peacefully in formation, winged their way past.
‘If you can’t identify them by name we’ll be burdened by their deaths for the rest of our lives,’ the head of the MIA team had said. He had been an insurance clerk at one time. Now his entire life was gathering corpses. He was preoccupied with this sole duty which was to locate, identify, recover then bury the dead soldiers. He used to describe his work as though it were a sacred oath, and ask others to swear their dedication.
An oath was hardly necessary for Kien or the others in the MIA team. They’d emerged from the war full of respect and mourning for the unfortunate dead, named and nameless alike.
One of Kien’s scouts was Phan, a native of Hai Hung province. He told Kien this story: ‘I don’t know who he was because he was from the ARVN Special Commandos, on the other side. Anyway, during one fierce battle during the rainy season this guy’s company and mine became entangled in a very bloody fight. Rivers of blood; no winner, no loser, both battered. The Americans backed these ARVN units up with artillery from the top of a hill and when the artillery stopped the Phantoms came in and bombed us. I dropped into a bomb crater and escaped the big bombs. Then came the baby bombs, exploding non-stop.
‘I lay there not moving and then this guy jumped in on me, heavy as a log. I was so frightened I stabbed him twice in the chest through his camouflage uniform, then once more in the belly, then again in the neck. He cried in pain and writhed around convulsing, his eyes rolling. I realised then he’d already been badly wounded before jumping in. His own artillery had blown his foot off and he was bleeding all over, even from the mouth. His hands were trying to hold in his intestines, which were spilling out of his belly and steaming. I didn’t know what to do. He was so pitiful. I pushed his guts back into his belly and tore my shirt off to bandage him, but it was so hard to stop the bleeding.
‘If it had been anyone else, not someone so strong and healthy, he would have died right then. But this guy just moaned louder and louder, tears running down his cheeks. I was horrified and at the same time felt deep pity for him.
‘So when the raid stopped I jumped out of the crater telling him to stay there for a while. “I’m going to find some cloth and bandages,” I told him. “I’ll be back soon.”
‘He blinked at me, the rain pouring down his face, mixing water, tears and blood. Outside the crater the jungle was destroyed, with trees broken and the ground devastated. Troops from both sides had withdrawn so I searched for a while and found a bag with emergency medical equipment in it, then turned to go back to help him.
‘But I’d been silly. By then it was dark and I had no idea where the crater was. The trees around me had been broken off and branches scattered all around the place. The ground was pock-marked with hundreds of craters. Where was the one I’d been sharing with the Saigonese? Darkness fell, the heavy rain continued and the water flowed in small streams down the slopes. “Hey, Saigon, Saigon, hey!” I called, running around trying to find him. I fell into a crater. The water came over my knees. That meant that someone sitting inside a crater would now have water up to his chest.
‘The more I tried to find him the worse the situation became. All I did was exhaust myself. When dawn at last came and the rain eased you wouldn’t believe what I saw. Horrifying. All the bomb craters were filled to the rim with water.
‘I pushed off. I was going a little mad. I began to imagine his death; water slowly rising on him, a barbaric death stuck in the mud, helpless as the water came over his belly, his chest, his shoulders, his chin, his lips, then reached his nostrils… and he started to drown. He’d died still hoping desperately that I’d come back and save him, as I promised. In which crater had he died?
‘Now, even after many years, whenever I see a flood I feel a sharp pang in my heart and think of my cruel stupidity. No human being deserved the torture I left him to suffer.’
After many years of peace Phan was still tormented by the memory. Would the drowned man ever stop floating through his mind?
The sorrow of war inside a soldier’s heart was in a strange way similar to the sorrow of love. It was a kind of nostalgia, like the immense sadness of a world at dusk. It was a sadness, a missing, a pain which could send one soaring back into the past. The sorrow of the battlefield could not normally be pinpointed to one particular event, or even one person. If you focused on any one event it would soon become a tearing pain.
It was especially important, therefore, to avoid if possible focusing on the dead.
However, Kien would remember, until the last moments of his life, his first commander, Quang. In the dry season of 1966 during the Sa Thay campaign, Kien was a novice, fighting for the first time. For three days and nights fighting against the Air C
avalry Kien followed Quang closely. He was led, helped and in reality protected. Standing, lying down, rolling away, moving forward, running, Kien was linked with Quang. Then suddenly Quang had been chopped down, hit when the company was crossing a bamboo thicket near Hill 300 to get within range of the American troops who had dropped from helicopters.
Quang had been hit by a shell exploding right at his feet, blasting him into the air then plummeting him back to earth. Kien knelt clumsily beside his commander, but didn’t know how to help him. Quang’s belly was torn open, his intestines pouring out, but the frightening thing was that all his bones seemed to be smashed.
His two sides had been flattened somehow, and one arm had been torn from his shoulder. Amazingly, Quang was unconscious for only a brief time. Perhaps because he was in so much pain he regained consciousness quickly. He had been a fisherman in Mong Cai, was extremely strong and healthy, well-built and tough, as well as kind-hearted. He was usually brave and silent, but now he screamed: ‘Don’t touch me, don’t! Don’t bandage me any more, aaaahhhh!’
Kien had been trying to bandage Quang’s thighs.
‘Stop! Stop, please!’ he sobbed, and blood ran from the corners of his mouth. He lay still for a moment then moved his head and opened his eyes. ‘Kien, Keeee-en, shoot me!’ he said ‘Shoot!’
The jungle reverberated with artillery fire. Noisy shouts echoed through the smoke. Kien trembled desperately, but kept on trying to bandage Quang. While trying his best he fervently hoped Quang would faint and be free of the horrible pain – his pain was even torturing Kien. It seemed death itself was forcing Quang to stay conscious a little longer, to prolong the cruel torture.
Then even more artillery rounds came in from the enemy, with one shell exploding near them and burying them with earth, making it even more difficult for Kien to help Quang. Miraculously, Quang had lived through the second blast.
Blood flowed from his mouth and blood bubbled through his nose as he breathed. His eyes were wide open, as though he wanted to say something. Kien bent closer to listen: ‘If you pity me please don’t let me go on like this. I can’t stand the pain. My bones are smashed, my guts spilled…’ His voice was barely a tiny whisper yet it was clear and he spoke firmly: ‘Let me die. Just one shot. Please…’
Then with unexpected speed Quang summoned his remaining strength and reached with his one good arm for a grenade, then held it up.
‘Got it!’ he said loudly, almost cheerfully triumphant. He then began to laugh a ghastly laugh.
Kien looked on in alarm as Quang shouted to him, ‘Get out quick, Kien. Go! Out of here! Get out!’
As Kien started to move he heard Quang’s ghoulish laughter. He jumped up and began to back away, his eyes on the grenade’s detonator. Swiftly he turned and ran as Quang’s crazed laughter followed him.
Nine years later one of Kien’s MIA team said he had heard crazed laughter echoing from Hill 300, on the other side of the Sa Thay river. Kien listened as the nervous man gave his version.
‘I think it came from the jungle monster the Trieng people talk about,’ said the soldier.
‘Anyway, I’m sure it wasn’t a human laugh because it was shaking and choking. It didn’t last long but I froze in my tracks. Looking around a bit, I found a small grassed clearing and then a little hut. I could smell something burning, like barbecued cassava, so it meant there were human beings there. Near the hut I saw a hairy figure, someone with very long hair and a beard, sitting naked on a log staring right at the place where I was hiding.
‘Then I saw a grenade in his hand, would you believe it? I crawled backwards but as I did I brushed a few leaves and the man must have heard it because he stood up, looked my way and stepped forward. I jumped up then ran away and as I ran he started that horrible laughter again, and followed me.’
‘Perhaps it was the Forest Man,’ said another, remembering the local folklore.
‘Why would Forest Man have a grenade? And Forest Man isn’t supposed to live in a hut. And would Forest Man laugh like that?’ the young soldier replied.
‘Maybe it was Tung. What do you think, Kien?’
‘Tung who?’ asked Kien.
‘Crazy Tung. The guardsman, don’t you remember? He went crazy and left us in the jungle when we were based near Crossroad 90 in 1971. That’s quite close to that area.’
‘Oh, that Tung, I remember now. Maybe you’re right. He used to laugh and laugh when he had his mad crises and he gave everyone the shivers.’
The ghost talk went on. Some said there were ghostly streams in the jungle where those who drank the water began immediately to suffer all sorts of diseases, including mental illness. But they remembered that Tung’s illness had been caused by a bomb fragment penetrating his brain. At least that’s what the regimental doctor had said.
Kien remembered their headquarters had been bombed and many soldiers killed and wounded. Tung appeared to escape unscratched, except for a terrible headache. The nurse gave him aspirin but that seemed to make it worse.
Then suddenly one night Tung’s laughter had sounded through all the huts. Yes, that hadn’t been far from here. Tung cleared out and although many tried to track him down and bring him back he skilfully avoided his trackers.
After several weeks there was still no trace of Tung. The soldiers began saying the bomb fragment had zig-zagged around in his head leading the craziness into all corners of his skull, making him crazy in several different ways.
Still, listening to the story of Tung, Kien could hardly concentrate. All he could think of was Quang’s death and his laughter, and the grenade, nine years ago. It seemed to the soldiers talking about these mystical happenings that intense physical pain could mingle with the earth and grow into the trees in the jungle. Such desperate tragedies might create those ghostly sounds, sounds that would be heard forever, recreating the agonies of the past.
It was around this time that Kien began to drift over the edge from logic and started believing in ghosts. Ghosts in the winds from hell and in the mystical occurrences in the deep and gloomy jungle.
Kien and his MIA team finally decided to investigate the hut where the long-haired man had been seen. As they approached they heard a howl of laughter, coarse chuckles and roars, as though they were warning calls trying to prevent them prying.
‘Who are you?’ Kien called. ‘We’re your friends,’ he added, hoping to entice them out.
There was no reply. Only the sounds of a creek running down from Hill 300.
The jungle was still. ‘The war is over,’ Kien shouted. ‘It’s peace. No war. You can come out!’ he added.
The reply was a long peal of hysterical laughter which made the hair on their necks stand on end. Laughter? Or simply the howl of a lunatic? The barbaric moaning echoed on and on, the sounds clashing as though more than one voice was calling.
The MIA team waited patiently until the noises stopped, then moved towards the hut. Kien and the team felt rather than saw shadows flit from the rear of the hut into the jungle. From the top of a tree near the grass plot they heard a bird call sharply as the grass parted below the tree.
‘Look!’ someone shouted.
At the edge of the clearing where the bamboo jungle began, a ghostly figure was seen momentarily. Long hair flying. Then another, bent-over shadowy figure running along behind the first. Illusion and reality mixed with each other as the figures merged with the dark green jungle backdrop.
The MIA team were amazed. They left a can of rice, salt and medicines in the hut, hoping to help. But when they returned a few days later the rice and the medicine were still there, untouched. ‘They might think it’s a trap,’ said one of the team.
‘They? That means you’re sure they’re human?’ said one who felt they’d been ghosts.
‘Look,’ said Kien picking up a comb. It had been fashioned from a piece of aluminium, probably from a crashed plane. Long hair was still in the comb.
‘Well, they aren’t ghosts. Or Forest Men,’ one said.
‘But who are they? Ours? Deserters? Or Saigonese?’
No one had an answer.
For weeks after that the team kept a sharp eye out for the hut-dwellers, but not once were they seen. Once some laughter was heard, and another time one of them had seen a woman bathing in the river at dusk. When he had approached she had turned and burst into ghoulish laughter and fled, into the bush or into the reeds on the edge of the stream.
‘Maybe the other one’s gone and ditched her,’ said one soldier. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s carrying a baby.’
In this way they mulled over the mysterious figures. The one who spoke of the baby was hoping this unfathomable story would be made less tragic by adding an air of hope, perhaps even a happy ending. By including a baby, it somehow sounded better.
He went on: ‘The mental illness wouldn’t affect the baby. He’d grow up, people would find him, or maybe he would find people by himself,’ he suggested.
‘We have to hope so,’ another said, now taking the baby for granted.
‘Well, let’s hope so. There must be a lot of them around here like this, not to mention the more horrible stories. The dead ones left behind, for example,’ another said.
‘That’s right! The dead ones, too,’ another chimed in. ‘They must also have a certain salvation.’
That’s right, said Kien to himself as he listened to these ramblings. After all these we are the ones who are now confused and mired in shame. We are the ones who’ve become totally alienated. But we shan’t be like this forever. There must be some way out for us. But when?