by Bao Ninh
‘Look. All’s not lost. Let’s hitch a ride to the next station. This is wartime, there’ll be plenty of ways to deal with this problem. Let’s get something to eat, first.’ She spoke quickly, to allay his fears.
‘God, you look exhausted!’ she added suddenly.
As they stood there, his war had started.
Battalion 36 had travelled to Van Trai, in the south-west. While Kien was making tracks to catch up with the other new recruits who were by then as far south as Cu Nam, B52 bombers had struck, giving them a nasty welcome to the war.
The battalion commander, who had threatened the Hanoi boys with desertion charges if they missed the train, had been one of the first to be killed. The bombers had struck first at Van Trai station, the battalion taking heavy casualties. They had then been dispersed, some continuing south by road and the others ordered to sea to continue their move south. But the B52s struck again, sinking all the sea transports, and by the time Battalion 36 had been regrouped on land there were hardly any men left and those few continued as supplementary units to others, down Road 9 to the front.
A dozen recruits went to the front. Throwing a dozen untrained men into that battle would be as effective as throwing an ice-cube into a blazing furnace.
Kien, unaware of the raids because of the wartime blackout on news, especially bad news, was still hours behind when the attack came. It was not until ten years later that he heard the details: strangely, it was on the peace train from Saigon in May 1975 that the story emerged.
One of the survivors of the attack had been his deputy commander, Huy. By chance, Huy was in the same compartment on the peace train. By then he had been blinded but Kien recognised him at once and called his name. Huy, however, had forgotten Kien.
‘The luck of the unlucky,’ he said to Kien, on hearing how he’d missed the train. ‘If you hadn’t missed the train you’d have probably been killed at Van Trai in the first air raid. I escaped only because I’d moved to another compartment. Pure luck.
‘After the first bombing we continued with what was left of the train, thinking the B52s wouldn’t be back for a while. We were wrong, of course.
‘Look, if you’d deserted then no one would have noticed. What did happen, anyway?’ he asked.
Kien and Phuong had hurried from the station intending to hitch-hike and get by road to the station just ahead of the troop train. They had no idea where the train would be but knew, like all trains in those times, it would be ponderously slow. Kien was urged on by an inner fear of being branded a deserter, a designation he of all people didn’t deserve.
In his urgency he had ignored the perils of Phuong’s presence – an attractive smartly dressed teenage student, travelling with him at night on roads ranked as strategic routes and on full war footing, with military checkpoints and road patrols at frequent intervals.
The first hints of their predicament came when drivers of passing vehicles deliberately turned their faces away from the young couple trying to hitch-hike. Deserter? The penalties for helping deserters were heavy.
‘I’ll stop them,’ said Phuong, stepping forward. ‘There’s a wartime traffic priority on helping women. But I’ll make a deal: I’ll try cars going in either direction. If we get a ride north towards Hanoi let’s go home and stay the night together. If we get a car going south, we’ll catch your troop train.’
Kien was caught off balance. ‘But…’
‘Always a “but” with you! Going back to Hanoi with me makes you uneasy? You’ve got nothing to worry about. You can blame it on the Americans, and on me. Now, agreed?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but stepped out onto the road.
From a distance they saw two cone-shaped headlights with blackout hoods covering them restricting the light to a small area ahead. It was a truck, grinding along noisily, going south.
The driver could hardly believe his eyes. A beautiful girl had stepped from the edge of the road just ahead of him. She was waving a ribboned conical hat which she’d just removed, revealing lovely long hair.
He jammed on the brakes and the truck screeched to a halt, burning rubber.
He flung the passenger door open, shouting, ‘Where are you going? Don’t tell me you’re out for a stroll in the cool air!’
‘No. I’m going to the front line. The air’s not cool there at all,’ she quipped back.
‘The front? The war? Are you kidding?’ said the driver.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘We need to get to Phu Ly. It’s important.’
The driver then saw a young soldier, in full uniform, appear beside her. It was the first time the driver had noticed him. ‘I’m not going to Phu Ly. Dong Van, kid.’
Phuong turned to Kien and pulled him forward. Then she turned to the driver, offering her hand. He leaned over and lifted her in, flattered to be close to her. ‘Careful, now. The step’s broken,’ he said warmly.
Kien reluctantly followed. He slammed the truck door, but remained silent.
‘You’re really kind,’ said Phuong, looking at the driver for the first time. He was a rough-looking character.
‘Such posh manners!’ he answered.
‘Indeed,’ she said.
‘Are you really going to the front line?’ he asked warily.
‘Hope so.’
‘Pity?.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, a classy little lady like you. If you’re only going as far as Dong Van, even Phu Ly, you’ve still got a long way to go,’ the driver said. He spoke only to her, ignoring Kien.
‘We’re chasing a troop train. Once we’re on the train we’ll really be moving. Think you can beat the train? It left Van Dien at seven.’
‘Shit, I can beat those train-drivers any time,’ he boasted. ‘I’ll be at your station before them.’
They rode on in silence for a few miles. He sneaked a few appreciative glances at her. His ponderous brain had problems keeping up a lively conversation.
‘Any train’ll stop if you stand in front of it waving your hat for a brake,’ he said, flirting clumsily.
‘You’re an amusing chap,’ she said. ‘Heading into war, yet you seem light-hearted about it.’
The driver took it as a compliment. ‘Sure. We’re drivers, for the State. We do everything better than the bourgeois boys like your little mate here. You’ll soon find out who the real men are. The front’s very amusing, oh very amusing. Bloody hilarious.’
The driver had switched the cab lights off and it was now pitch dark inside. He drove at high speeds along the empty road, occasionally using the hooded lights which he operated by foot pedal. Kien was pleased he was nearing his unit, but the happiness was tinged by an undefined fear. He had ignored the crude driver; getting to the unit was more important than how he got there. With Phuong beside him it felt even better, although he had no idea of what she would do when he rejoined his unit.
He was kidding himself. He knew she was speeding headlong to the front, into certain peril.
In the background the driver, now relaxed and feeling no need to impress Phuong, swore roughly as he crashed through the gears and went about his job of getting to Dong Van on time.
Phuong was dreamily calm, rocking between the two men. When the truck hit rough patches she rested alternately on Kien’s, then the driver’s shoulder. Finally, the sky brightened. A full moon emerged from behind a cloudbank and moonlight filtered through into the cabin.
‘There it is!’ shouted the driver, pointing to a slow-moving engine and several carriages dimly visible in the moonlight across the fields.
‘Your train. We’ll beat it into Dong Van by five minutes,’ he said confidently. He seemed to forget about flirting with Phuong and got back to his beloved driving. Beating the train into Dong Van was an important goal.
‘Bloody hell! That locomotive sticks out like fire on a lake, any bloody bomber pilot could take it out without even using flares,’ the driver complained.
It was true. Red sparks flew from the engine with each powerful str
oke of the pistons. Kien thought it looked like thousands of big fireflies escaping into the air, tracing an obvious, fiery line for others to see.
The driver murmured, half to himself, ‘I wouldn’t be taking on the Americans by sending troops in a bloody slow train. That’s a sure way of going straight to hell.’ But Phuong’s response was to giggle, and grasp Kien’s hand excitedly.
Nearing the station the driver pulled the truck off the road, to keep it concealed. ‘Go along the lines, that way you’ll not be seen getting to the platform,’ he advised. ‘If it looks like not stopping just wave your hat, that’ll work.’
Kien got down. Phuong went to follow him but the driver had his strong arm around her waist, hugging her. ‘Listen,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll be coming back in two hours to make the run back to Hanoi. Wait for me here.’ She began to leave but he held on. ‘You’re so sexy, so beautiful. I can’t believe you’re throwing yourself into the front line. What a waste!’ He let her go. As she started down he said hopefully, ‘Two hours from now, I’ll come back. Be here!’
Phuong and Kien, hand in hand, ran quietly along the edge of the rail tracks. Behind them a train whistle screeched in the night and below them the ground trembled as it got closer.
Nearing the end of the platform they stopped and faced each other. Another parting. They embraced and kissed desperately, both crying their farewells as the rumbling got louder until with a deafening roar the locomotive slowly moved past them, puffing noisily and spraying out steam as it creaked to a halt.
In their embrace they had not noticed the silence that followed. No voices. No sign of human activity in the carriages. They broke from the embrace and began walking along the platform, past a luggage van, then another, then a truck piled heavy with cargo covered by a tarpaulin. It was a goods train.
The station master, carrying a lantern, approached them. Kien asked, ‘The military train, brother. Where is it? The troop train from Hanoi?’
The station master lifted the lantern to get a closer look at them. ‘Are you mad? Want to go to prison, or swallow a few bullets? That’s military information. Piss off, or I’ll call the police.’
The station master moved on, leaving them standing. ‘Let me ask him,’ said Phuong, and she broke away, running after the man. In a few minutes she returned, looking serious. ‘Your train went through twenty minutes ago. This is a goods train, but also heading for Vinh, following the troop train. Your unit’s ahead on the same line. Jump on! We’ll only be twenty minutes behind them by the time it reaches Vinh.’
It was a risk. Vinh, a big port city halfway between Hanoi and the DMZ border dividing North Vietnam from South Vietnam, was an obvious destination for both men and materials going south. He’d mingle with the others there.
They clambered up, pushing the door wider. Underfoot it felt mushy, like soil. ‘Shut the bloody door,’ came a rough voice from the dark. ‘They’ll catch us with the door open. Quick, gimme yer hand.’
‘Just stand aside,’ said Phuong, swinging herself in easily.
‘A bloody girl!’ said a drunken voice.
‘Get out of the way,’ commanded Phuong. ‘Let us through.’
When they were both in, with Kien kneeling, she whispered, ‘Lie down. The train’s moving.’
‘You shouldn’t stay,’ Kien said.
‘So, you want to leave me again?’ she said, taking his hand. ‘I’m going to go a little further with you, that’s all.’
Kien started to protest again, but it was too late. The train was moving out of the station with sharp, sudden tugs as the carriages clanked against each other. Soon, it settled into a modest speed.
‘Come over here,’ said the voice, ‘plenty of room, more comfortable. You can sleep in each other’s arms. President Johnson’s on holiday, he won’t attack tonight.’
They moved hand-in-hand between bales of goods piled roof-high. ‘Move along, move along,’ the voice said, and there were grumbles from other men trying to sleep. ‘Make way for a pretty young girl,’ the voice continued.
Phuong entwined herself with Kien the moment they were settled. She kissed his cheeks, trying to calm him. To Kien it was part nightmare, part daydream and even in the tightest embrace a sense of the unreal stayed with him.
The crudely-made, old-fashioned goods car had a high roof which creaked along with the joints of the car’s walls. Wind howled through broken timbers.
A sensation of hopelessness swept over Kien. Phuong felt his unhappiness: ‘Why don’t you… why don’t you want me?’ He couldn’t answer. He simply lay there listening to the puffing of the engine, smelling the damp odour of the straw and earthen floor and the mixture of coal dust and fumes in the air.
Every few minutes very small stations and sidings whizzed past his vision, some with dim lights on poles the only evidence of their existence. Then a thundering as they crossed a steel trestle bridge. They were heading into the Red River Delta where the action started and he was savouring the last moments of freedom and romance with Phuong. God knew what would happen to them when they got there.
Kien, more than a decade later, relived those last minutes in the train. Phuong had long since left him, for the second time, although for some reason a lamp still burned in her apartment. Many times, after a night of drinking, he would forget the lamp had been left on, and imagine Phuong had returned. He would stand before her apartment door knocking and calling before remembering the light had been burning ever since she had left.
From now on it was nostalgia and war recollections that drove him on. With Phuong gone this was his only hope of staying in rhythm with normal life. The sorrows of war and his nostalgia drove him down into the depths of his imagination. From there his writing could take substance.
Kien and Phuong had been just sixteen years old when they completed Ninth Form. Kien remembered the event well. It had been in August, the start of August. The Chu Van An school Youth Union had organised a vacation camp at Do Son, on the Tonkin Gulf. Even non-Union members like Phuong and Kien were eligible to go.
The early days of the camp were wet and dismal. The sea seemed to be perpetual foam and it rained all day long. Then one afternoon the clouds parted and the sun shone brilliantly and the mood changed.
The students unpacked their gear and began pitching tents on the foreshore. As they shot up it reminded Kien of multicoloured mushrooms suddenly sprouting between rows of casuarina trees. That evening the students made a huge campfire and started a party around it. It was an extremely happy time for them all and as the flames grew higher in the night the beer, wine and music flowed and guitars and accordions started playing as the students began to sing.
It was a memorable, happy evening around the campfire amidst the trees with a background of the darkest of seas. The night wound down slowly and pleasantly, the students gradually dropping off to sleep. Kien, close to Phuong, noticed she was a little apprehensive, and asked why.
‘Something abnormal about the sea,’ she replied evasively. ‘Frightening.’
A normal sea breeze was blowing, the waves were soft. The moonlight glittered on the waves and overhead the starry night seemed peaceful.
Kien noticed nothing unusual.
He threw some more driftwood on the campfire. Phuong gently strummed a guitar, but didn’t sing. Then they heard muffled, adult voices and heavy footsteps.
From a group of men, one stepped forward. ‘Why haven’t you doused the fire?’ he asked angrily.
‘Put it out? Why?’ asked Kien looking up.
A sailor with a rifle slung around his shoulder stood there looking down at them. ‘Put it out,’ he said, starting to kick sand over the fire.
‘Why?’
‘Don’t ask why. We got orders tonight. No fires on the beach. No lights. They order it, we carry it out. We aren’t allowed to ask why, it’s a military order.’
‘Is singing banned, too?’ asked Phuong, feigning innocence.
The sailor lowered his gun, softened his stanc
e and sat down with them. ‘No. Don’t stop singing. That’s got to go on at all costs. Sing us a song now,’ he invited.
Two others from the shore patrol returned, sitting down and looking at Phuong. She said to the first sailor, ‘Oh, I wasn’t intending to sing. I just asked if singing was banned.’
‘Sing, all the same, sister,’ he said sadly. ‘Sing a farewell song, to us. I’ll tell you a secret; you’ll know tomorrow anyway. It’s war. America has entered the war. We’re fighting the Americans.’
Phuong nervously started picking at the guitar, sweeping her slim fingers along the strings. After taking a deep breath, as if to calm herself, she raised her head and as her shawl fell from her shoulders, began to sing sweetly. Her audience of Kien and the patrolmen sat silently, moved to sadness as the sweet words flowed:
‘The winds, they are a changin’,
the harsh winds blow in the world from tonight,
no longer the peace
we were hoping for
Our loved ones grieve, for those who’ll be lost,
no longer in peace
our children will live.
From this moment on,
the winds, they are a changin’.’
* * *
The first old sailor had begun to sniffle. He looked over sadly to beautiful Phuong and handsome Kien as though they were a doomed generation, already victims of a new, long war.
War! War! The sea roared out the message in the small hours of 5 August 1965. A small storm began far out across the Tonkin Gulf and the group looked on as distant forked lightning seemed to signal the start of the war. Nearby the other students in tents around the fire also began to wake up and slowly, realising something new was upon them, began to gather round the fire and talk over the news.
Kien and Phuong slipped out of the campfire circle to a quiet spot where they couldn’t be heard or seen. They embraced urgently. The realisation they would certainly soon be parted and their world would soon be changed heightened the desperation. They whispered innocent, passionate vows to each other, promising never to waver in their love.