Yong Kyu decided to concentrate on B-rations because these were goods that enjoyed a broad-based and stable demand in the local population. Food provisions were classified into three categories: unprocessed A-rations; B-rations that are semi-processed or partly cooked but still need to be cooked in combination with other ingredients; and C-rations that, for use in combat situations, are made for ready consumption.
The A-rations were handled at the MAC terminal across the smokestack bridge. They included vegetables—potatoes, onions, cabbage, celery, asparagus, lettuce, and peppers—and various kinds of frozen and processed meats—beef, pork, chicken, turkey, sardines, sausages—as well as fruits such as oranges, apples, bananas, dates, grapes, cherries, melons, and so on. The produce was mostly flown in from the US, in crates bearing the black stamps of farms in California, Florida, and Washington. The vegetables were even fresher than those picked near Hoi An and trucked into the Da Nang markets.
All the grains and flours—corn, barley, wheat, and rice—were kept at the MAC 36 cargo terminal and delivered directly from there, but all B and C-rations were warehoused at the Turen supply warehouse. B-rations included all the canned and packaged foodstuffs, ranging from spices like black pepper to salad dressing, sauces, raisins, almonds, walnuts, coffee, tea, butter, cheeses, pasta, etc. Yong Kyu was confident he could keep a firm grip on the marketing channels of Da Nang with B-rations alone. These commodities could be considered the cleanest of those that flowed through the black market. Though “clean,” after all, was only a relative expression. Once he had locked up a major chunk of the food trade, he could fumble his way into other daily necessities and luxury food items, one by one. Pham Quyen did not yet seem to think much of Yong Kyu’s involvement in the business. He had lived up to his promises and issued them a vehicle pass, which would expire after one month.
The Logistics Battalion truck convoy had emerged from brigade headquarters after loading supplies and was just past the Dong Dao crossroads, approaching the Y-junction. The Americans had given this intersection the nickname “Crap Crossing.” Human excrement collected in downtown Da Nang had been poured as fertilizer onto the vast, cactus-studded fields around the junction. Much of the stinking garbage from the city also found its way to the same site for dumping. The right fork of the junction led downtown, the left to the supply warehouse, and the stem of the “Y” was Route 1. In the center of the junction there was a platform that served as a traffic control box as well as a checkpoint for the Vietnamese Quartermaster Corps to conduct their inspections of the traffic passing by.
Yong Kyu had contacted Master Sergeant Yun and made arrangements for the use of a recreation center vehicle. He was supposed to give the driver twenty or thirty dollars as pocket money in the name of temporary duty allowance. It was a good opportunity for the rec center to do a little favor for CID. Yong Kyu watched the lead Jeep in the convoy make a left turn at the junction, followed by an armed escort vehicle. A cloud of red dust soon enveloped them. About twenty empty trucks rattled by, another armored personnel carrier trailing behind them.
“Get in line with them!”
The driver gunned the engine and pulled in behind the last vehicle. Maintaining constant speed and spacing, the convoy rumbled along Route 1, past the campside villages and small infantry units marching along the road. They entered the east gate of the Turen supply warehouse. Used oil had been poured over the dust, making the surface of the road look like asphalt. The sentries guarding the gate were busy controlling the heavy traffic. A lone vehicle entering the gate would be rigorously inspected, but by tagging along behind a scheduled convoy it could usually pass right in without being checked at all.
At Turen, the Allied Forces’ supply transports had priority over all other vehicles. The east gate was off-limits to Vietnamese vehicles, which had to go through tougher inspection procedures for access at the south gate near the ammunition dump. Once inside the warehouse, the transport trucks were sent to docks according to the supplies being loaded. Yong Kyu knew the number of the food warehouse dock and gave it to the driver.
The procedure for delivering supplies was simple enough: the officer in command submits a requisition form issued by the supply division of brigade headquarters to the warehouse supply office, which issues a delivery order. Upon receiving this document, the administrative officer at the loading dock loads the indicated quantity of goods and both parties sign off on the requisition receipt. Combat supplies such as ammunition could be requisitioned almost without limit, but other items had been allocated in advance according to ration standards and estimates of normal daily consumption for relevant units. Even so, supplies were always abundant and the warehouses always overflowing.
Some days earlier, Yong Kyu had visited Turen in his Jeep. He had fostered an acquaintance with a certain corporal on the administrative staff at the B-ration warehouse. Yong Kyu knew from the corporal’s clipboard that he was a section chief. His clipboard held a requisition receipt ledger—once any given number of pallets had been loaded, the corporal would do a count and then sign the receipt along with the driver of the truck, then he would tear off the top copy and hand it over, keeping the carbon copy beneath to submit to his superior for inventory control.
This American corporal was a typical white with brown hair and lots of freckles. It wasn’t easy for Yong Kyu to make deals with Blacks. If the counterpart in a transaction was a black soldier, there were two things to watch out for: he might turn out to be unreliable, and also there could be a breakdown in cooperation on the other side; if the senior American was black, white soldiers often refused to join in on the deal.
The soldiers in the convoy parked their vehicles along the docks and headed off for the mess hall. While they were having lunch, the documents would be processed and the loading would commence in the early afternoon. Yong Kyu walked over toward the warehouse. Each block unit of the warehouse contained twenty warehouses, enormous corrugated metal Quonsets lined up in straight rows, each the size of an auditorium. Above each dock door was posted the kind and quantity of the goods stored inside. Forklifts were busy moving back and forth, and container trucks were constantly going in and out from the offloading docks on the other side of the warehouses. On the piers in front of the Quonsets, American soldiers in running shirts or stripped to the waist were breaking out cartons or jockeying packages inside with pallet jacks.
Yong Kyu loitered about looking for the corporal. Nobody paid him any attention. His uniform was exactly like their own, except that his sunglasses and openly displayed pistol made them take him for an officer. At last Yong Kyu spotted the corporal sitting at a desk inside one of the Quonsets. He was in a sleeveless shirt and drinking a Coke.
“How are you? Hot out.”
The corporal threw a quick glance his way. “Who are you?”
Yong Kyu tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m Sergeant Ahn, forgot me already? I was here two days ago.”
The corporal whistled, shaking his head. “Hey, that whiskey you laid on me was a real hit. The guys in our barracks got loaded.”
On his last visit Yong Kyu had given him three bottles of Johnnie Walker Black Label. One right word to the soldier in charge of requisitions would easily get you three boxes of coffee for free. But Yong Kyu had purposely given him whiskey, which was forbidden to soldiers below the rank of sergeant.
“Thanks for the coffee you gave me last time, my friends said it ought to be enough to last for a few years.”
The corporal got up and went over to the icebox in the corner. “Care for a cold drink?”
“No, thanks. I’m all right.”
“How about a beer?”
“I’m on duty.”
Nevertheless the corporal came back over with a can of beer.
“Officers? My ass. Don’t worry, fighting the heat is also a war, y’know.”
Yong Kyu lounged on the desk, stretching his legs side by side
with the corporal.
“You’re not a career soldier, huh?”
“Nope, they dragged me out here. My motorcycle is rusting back home when I should be out riding flat track races. Well, only six months left in my hitch now.”
“Corporal, I only know your rank. What’s your name?”
“Leonardo, but they just call me Leon. I’m from Chicago. You know Chicago? A big city.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it, Leon. Your name sounds Italian.”
“Same as the old man who painted the Mona Lisa. My grandfather emigrated to America. I’ve never been to Italy.”
“I like it.”
“Like what?”
“The Italian name. It goes with Chicago. We hear lots of stories about the gangsters, from the movies.”
“We’ve got one in the family. A Mafia man.”
Yong Kyu crushed the empty can and tossed it over the desk into the wastebasket. “How’s the duty going?”
“Here?” Leon stuck his tongue halfway out.
“I’m sick and tired of it. I’d rather be in a combat unit. Time passes too slowly here.”
“Do you know why I came to Vietnam?”
“No. Hell, I don’t even know why I came here. Shit, OK, why did you come?”
Yong Kyu removed his sunglasses.
“I came because you people called. That’s why.”
“I didn’t call you. I got drunk one weekend, and when I woke up on Monday I found an enlistment notice in my mailbox. So off I go to basic training.”
“What’re you going to do when you go home and get discharged?”
“Well, first I guess I’ll ride my motorcycle as much as I want. Then I’ll make some money.”
“Can you get out of here on off-duty days?”
“Not easy to go all the way downtown. Just outside the camp around here, sometimes.”
“Good, let’s go to China Beach sometime.”
“Sure, easy to get there.”
“Leon, you got any fruit salad in here? My boss is crazy about that junk. First thing he eats in the morning. So I came over to see if I could get some.”
The corporal quickly got up, saying, “Come with me, I’ll give you a couple of boxes.”
Two boxes would mean twenty-four cans. Leon walked through the maze of the warehouse until he reached a certain spot where he started lifting cartons to check their labels. The whole area was filled with cartons of various canned fruits. He lifted up one box and put it on his shoulder, pointing with his finger at another.
“There, take that one yourself.”
They each brought out a box and set them down on the desk at the entrance. Yong Kyu took out a ten-dollar military certificate and held it out to Leon, who looked confused.
“What’s this?”
“Don’t you recognize it? It’s money. I don’t have anything in exchange this time. Just take it.”
“That’s a ten, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, be a big spender when you go out on R & R.”
“Want some more fruit salad?”
“No, this is enough. By the way, how about coming downtown with me next weekend?”
“Downtown is off-limits for us. We get stopped at the checkpoint on the outskirts of the city.”
“That’s OK, I’ll come and pick you up. You just get a leave pass.”
Leon whistled again. “That’s great. Downtown, huh? Who the hell are you anyway?”
“I’m Westy’s old man.”
The corporal cackled until his faced turned red. Yong Kyu, the father of the commander of the American forces. Yong Kyu loaded the boxes on the truck and the driver drove out from the Turen supply warehouse. The driver laughed and said the whole thing seemed absurd.
“And for just this, two measly boxes, you asked for a truck to come all the way here?”
“I was just dipping a toe in. Let me cover your pocket money for today.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Yong Kyu had the truck stop in front of the Bamboo Club. He unloaded the boxes and left them with a vendor on the street. He said to the driver, “Tell Sergeant Yun I said thanks. I’ll be dropping by next week.”
It happened to be lunch hour and inside the Bamboo he found Vietnamese civilians sitting around sipping drinks. They appeared to be merchants or bureaucrats. During the day the patrons were mostly Vietnamese, but at night it was mostly Western soldiers. Toi was at a table in the corner. Sitting beside him was an oily-haired middle-aged man in a white shirt.
“Did you cut a deal?” asked Toi.
“Who’s this?” Yong Kyu asked, glancing at the other man.
“Major Pham sent him. I met him for the first time today.”
“He promised to meet me when he gets leave Saturday.”
Toi nodded. “Then we should have the goods in our hands by sometime next week.”
When Toi said something in Vietnamese to the middle-aged man, the latter bowed slightly.
“Do you speak English?” Yong Kyu asked him.
“Very little. A few words for business,” the man mumbled with a thick guttural accent.
“If Major Pham sent him, he must be in on the dealing channels on their side . . . do you know anything about this man?”
“No, not yet. Perhaps within three days I’ll be able to tell you about his cousins’ cousins. I talked with him a little before you came in, and it seems he’s got channels to the town merchants throughout the central region, including Quang Tri, Hue, Bien Hien, Hoi An and as far south as Quang Ngai. I’d say you could count the men in Da Nang with his kind of trading network on your two hands. Looks like he’s been doing business with the provincial government for a very long time.”
“Ask him if he owns a store.”
“A merchant like him wouldn’t bother with retail selling. He probably has warehouses and vehicles.”
Toi asked the man something, then interpreted the reply for Yong Kyu.
“He has eight big transport trucks. As for warehouses, he has two small ones in the Le Loi market and a bigger warehouse across the river.”
“Good. Can he rent a store in Le Loi market we can use?”
“He says we can share his younger brother’s office. Of course, we should pay a little as rent.”
“What kinds of things does he need?”
Once again Toi did not relay the question and instead looked scornfully at Yong Kyu.
“Confident, are you? So, you planning to empty all of Turen yourself? This man wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the order from Pham Quyen, and I can tell he doesn’t have a very high opinion of us.”
“Ask him anyway.”
Toi asked the man, who looked at his watch and then curtly mumbled something.
“He says demand for salad dressing is pretty high right now.”
“I see. If he wants, I can deliver the goods this time on Monday. Price?”
“Instead of talking price, isn’t it more urgent to settle the delivery procedures and the method of sale? The price can be negotiated at a suitable amount when the market is checked.”
Toi had a point. Yong Kyu sunk back into his chair.
“You’re right. I don’t now. Discuss it with him your way.”
Toi spoke with the middle-aged man in Vietnamese. “Have you done many deals with Major Pham?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see what that has to do with what we’re doing here.”
“My friend here says he’ll bring the salad dressing you want this time next Monday. How do you want to handle it?”
“What’s the quantity, exactly?”
“Well . . . about one truckload.”
“If it’s only a single truck, then it won’t be more than two pallets. Ordinarily a pallet is twenty cartons, so it’ll be forty boxes altogeth
er. But in case of cans, it may be different. Twelve cans make one box, and the total quantity is less. Anyway, for that amount we won’t need a full container, a conex box will be fine and down at the pier terminal there are plenty that belong to the provincial administration. We’ll give you a number and a key and you’ll deliver the goods down there. Be sure not to forget the key. When we pay you for the goods, you just hand over the key to us. That’s all.”
“You said you have your own warehouse, so why ask us to deliver the goods to storage?”
“Depending on the market situation, the goods might go to our warehouse or end up across the river. But deals of this kind are generally done with keys and drops. In case we want to resell to another party, we can just leave the goods in the conex box for them to pick up.”
“We haven’t settled on a price.”
“It fluctuates quite a bit. In a business like this we have to trust each other. A dealing line is like a lifeline we both are holding onto. The going rate for salad oil has been around 2300 piasters for a large box and 1900 for a small one.”
“Can you pay in dollars?”
“You mean hard cash?”
“No, military dollars will do.”
“We can pay however our partner wants. But if you ask for military currency, there’s a service commission of 20 percent. Stateside cash would cost up to 30 percent. So if payment is in military currency, the large boxes will be eighteen dollars and fifteen for the small. Depending on what the seller wants, in some cases we can also pay in gold, in money orders, or in the currency of a third country.”
“So, you’re in the money-changing business too?”
“There are ways to get it done.”
“How about doing our deal in military currency?”
“We’ll prepare it that way.”
“What other items would be good?”
The merchant thought for a while.
“The goods we’re handling are already set, and we’re not intruding on the business of others. I’ve mainly been dealing in rice, and it was only after getting to know Major Pham that I laid my hands on cement. Processed food is also one of our lines. There are a few others, but they only handle a bit of the military supplies.”
The Shadow of Arms Page 25