There Will Be War Volume II

by Jerry Pournelle

  Americans had learned, and learned well. The tragedy of American arms, however, is that having an imperfect sense of history Americans sometimes forget as quickly as they learn.

  Editor's Introduction to:

  ...AND BABY MAKES THREE

  by Doan Van Toai

  It is often asked why men fight. Can we not all live in peace and brotherhood?

  That, of course, depends upon the price one is willing to pay for peace. This essay was written by a man who once thought peace worth a very great deal.

  In 1975, four army corps swept down from North Vietnam into the south. The Congress of the United States refused to give the President permission to defend South Vietnam, and would not appropriate sufficient money to buy supplies for the Republic of Vietnam to defend itself. South Vietnam accordingly fell.

  Doan Van Toai was an anti-American activist during the Vietnam War. Shortly after the fall of Saigon, he was arrested by the North Vietnamese and imprisoned for 28 months. He was eventually released. He had never been charged, and he was never tried; no explanation for his arrest or release was ever given.

  This account of the night that Dang Giao was arrested is based on conversations between the two men in prison camp. Mr. Toai is currently at the Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy at Tufts University. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Giao have been heard from in several years.

  ...AND BABY MAKES THREE

  by Doan Van Toai

  THE ONLY NOISE in the streets of Saigon at 11 P.M. was the staccato voice of Radio Hanoi spitting out Communist propaganda. Otherwise the city was silent beneath a thick blanket of fear. People huddled behind closed doors each night dreading the heavy-handed knock of unkempt young men in plainclothes come to arrest those on their list. When sleep did come, it was restless and light.

  On this night. Dang Giao’s wife had just finished feeding their newborn son. The knock on the door, although long expected, still came as a shock. And now the second lieutenant was reading the warrant in a loud and forceful voice, his eyes riveted on the paper.

  “Considering the security requirements of the Fatherland, and considering the denunciation of the people, the People’s Security Command of Ho Chi Minh City hereby orders: 1) That the home of Tran Duy Cat, pen name Dang Giao, and his wife Chu Vi Thuy, daughter of the notorious reactionary Chu Tu, be searched and that all suspect objects found therein be confiscated. 2) That the two abovenamed be arrested for their many activities against the people when they served as handmaids of the American puppets on the cultural front, under the guise of reporters for the newspaper Song Than [The Tidal Wave]. 3) That the forenamed be tried under the law of March 1976. On the behalf of the Director Comrade.”

  (This was to be Dang Giao’s second run-in with Communist authorities. In 1954, at the end of the French Indochinese War, he opted to leave the Communist North, settled in Saigon, and became editor of Song Than, a daily newspaper which was so critical of the Thieu government that it was closed down in 1974. A year later, when the North Vietnamese took Saigon, he refused to leave. “I would rather die in this country than live somewhere else,” he told the author years later in prison camp.)

  The lieutenant now puts the warrant on a table and looks at Dang Giao, trying to gauge his reaction. Already, forty-odd young people, most of them not yet 16 years old, have separated into groups, like small armies of ants, and begun to search the house. They even climb up and knock out parts of the ceiling that look as if they have been patched. They pull out the wood paneling in the sitting room and slash open the sofa and chair cushions. They go at the wrecking party with enthusiasm. Each time a knife slashes a cushion or a hammer smashes a souvenir of their life together, Chu Vi Thuy feels a stab of pain. Dang Giao consoles her gently: “We have lost a country. What are these trifles to you now?”

  The officer in charge is looking over the “suspect objects” that from time to time the cadres bring out. He seems pleased with the work of his subordinates and delighted with everything they turn up, from the family album, to back issues of newspapers, to early love letters from Dang Giao to his wife.

  SUDDENLY THE lieutenant’s attention is riveted by some lines scrawled in a notebook.

  “1 A.M. The night is already advanced, cold and windy outside. The planes are coming back to the base one after the other. The noise keeps me up. Oh, how I miss you, wish you could be here.

  “4:30 A.M. Fell into deep slumber, I don’t know when, but suddenly woke up because the telephone rang. A flash of happiness, but it was not you, just someone dialing the wrong number. I tried to go back to sleep hoping to see you tomorrow…”

  Holding the notebook before Dang Giao’s face, the lieutenant asks suspiciously, “Now what’s this? Tell me the truth.”

  “You’ve read it. What is there to ask?”

  “I am questioning you. You had better give me a good answer. I am a representative of the State and of the Party, and I am not here to joke with you. You think I can’t read? Let me tell you, I am a college graduate from Hanoi University, not from one of the puppet universities in Saigon, like you.”

  “That’s my wife’s diary, written ten years ago, before we were married; that is our private life.”

  At first Dang Giao had thought the lieutenant was asking just for the sake of asking. Now, realizing that he is serious, he can’t resist saying, “I thought that being a socialist officer who defeated the Americans you would know everything. What need is there to ask a reactionary fellow like me?”

  Turning grim, the lieutenant blurts out, “I am only asking to test your sincerity. As for the rest, I know everything, of course. That’s not a diary. It’s a coded book of signals sent to other reactionaries. Otherwise, why should you note down the hours like 1 A.M. and 4 A.M.? If you were not a reactionary why would you have a telephone? Why would you note the incoming flights? I know everything, I tell you. The Yankees had a few hundred thousand of these books, but they were never able to fool the Revolution. Every time Nixon sent his troops over, the Revolution knew it all, so don’t count on fooling us.”

  By now Dang Giao understood his own situation and what lay in store for him. But he found it incredible that an officer of the People’s Army should be so obtuse. “Better control yourself,” he thinks and then says: “Well, have it your own way. You can charge me with any crime now, and I am ready for it. But I ask one favor for our newborn child. The boy is only 15 days old, his mother is still weak and sick. If you could let her stay home with the baby a few more days… You could arrest her later on. I will be your hostage.”

  “Don’t give me your bourgeois feelings. The women in the North run out with guns to shoot down American planes two or three days after they have given birth, and nothing bad happens. Your wife has rested a full two weeks. Besides, at the security camp, she’ll be taken care of. The State is very kind. You needn’t worry. Just reform and carry out all orders.” The lieutenant pauses a moment and then asks, “What’s the baby’s name?”

  Dang Giao quickly answers, “Liberation.”

  The officer cannot believe his ears. “What?”

  Dang Giao repeats it, but his wife interposes: “He’s just a few days old, we haven’t had time to name him.”

  The lieutenant takes out a form and starts to write. By now the search is over. A soldier carrying three thick volumes asks Chu Vi Thuy, “What kind of books are these?”

  “They are dictionaries.”

  “I asked you what kind of books.”

  “I said they are dictionaries.”

  ANOTHER SOLDIER standing nearby comes to the aid of his friend: “What he means is, what does it say in them?”

  Chu Vi Thuy laughs. “Oh, they are books that give you the meaning of French words in Vietnamese, or that translate English words into French.”

  The young man has made a discovery; his excitement is hard to contain: “Really!” By now the officer has finished writing. He stands up and commands: “Everyone! Everyone! Attention!” and he reads in a resonant
voice:

  “Considering the security requirements of the Fatherland, and considering the denunciation of the people, the People’s Security Command of Ho Chi Minh City hereby orders: 1) [He repeats the denunciation he read when he first entered their house.] 2)… 3) That the unnamed child of the notorious reactionary writer Dang Giao and his wife also be arrested… Signed.”

  So the problem of the baby is solved. As a special act of humanity the newborn child and his mother are not chained and manacled.

  As the three are about to be led away, Dang Giao’s two older boys, aged eight and six, rush at the lieutenant and try to hit him. Fighting back tears, Dang Giao tells them: “You stay at home. Tomorrow you can call Grandma to come and stay with you. Should anyone ask about your father, tell them the truth, that your father is in jail. Do you understand?”

  Now it is their mother’s turn to cry. Chu Vi Thuy slips to the floor, with the sleeping baby still in her arms.

  Two soldiers about 18 years old help her up, but with no sign of compassion. A third takes the baby. The entire group moves toward the bus. “Daddy, why are they taking you to jail?”

  “Go in and close the door now. Tomorrow morning you can call Grandma.”

  OUTSIDE, the first rays of the morning sun are beginning to brighten the silent streets. The communal radio speakers have been blaring since 5 A.M. The familiar voice of the regular announcer intones:

  “Just as Comrade Le Duan, the First Secretary of the Party, has said, our regime is a million times more democratic than any other regime in the world and thus the State Law promulgated on March 20 by the new regime is the most democratic law there is. To arrest people or search a home, one must have a written warrant…”

  The baby, comfortably nestled in the arms of one of the youths, suddenly cries out, alarming his mother. “Give me back my child,” she says. She holds him tight to her bosom, and her tears mingle with those on his face. Resolutely, Dang Giao speaks to her: “Why are you crying? There is nothing to cry about now. Didn’t we see it coming?”

  “You are right, there is nothing to cry about.” Chu Vi Thuy uses the hem of her dress to wipe the baby’s tears, then her own.

  At the Tran Hung Dao detention center, right in the heart of Saigon, 42 other journalists and writers are waiting in individual cells and detention halls. All have experienced similar moments. They are there simply because the Liberation Artists Association has drawn up a list of 44 names of “reactionaries” from the areas of art and literature. They have all been arrested under the Law of March 1976, the law which requires that arrests be made on the basis of a written warrant, even if it means one written on the spot against a 15-day-old baby.

  Dang Giao, his wife, and their baby are on their way to re-education camps, the Vietnamese Gulag from which they may or may not return. Their fate and the fate of thousands like them goes unremarked by the former antiwar activists who raised their voices to denounce human rights violations in South Vietnam. Between the genocide of Pol Pot in Cambodia and the repression in Vietnam there is a difference of degree, but the outcome is the same. The main difference is between a slow death and a quick one.

  Editor's Introduction to:

  IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER

  by Edward P. Hughes

  Edward Hughes is a telecommunications specialist for a national newspaper. He lives in Manchester, England. Some years ago I visited Manchester, where I was taken to a perfectly delightful Real Ale pub owned and operated by one Ray Bradbury. (Among Manchester science fiction fans, he is known as “the other Ray Bradbury”.) The Manchester science fiction club meets in an upstairs room of his tavern. This is appropriate, since the tavern harbors a ghost, fortunately more mischievous than malevolent.

  We had a delightful time in Manchester; but there was one prophetic experience.

  Mrs. Pournelle and I went to Manchester from Glasgow, travelling by the excellent British Railway system. This is a good way to travel. The trains are comfortable, on time, and connect nearly every place in Britain to everywhere else. We found ourselves wishing there was something comparable in the United States, although it’s hard to see how a nation several thousands of miles in dimensions can be served by rails as Britain is. Still, regions of the US certainly could be.

  When we reached Manchester we were met by the owners of the local book store. It was late afternoon, and I would be speaking shortly, so they had made dinner reservations at a nearby restaurant.

  Before we could enter the restaurant we were searched. The doorman wore North African Campaign service ribbons, and was very polite. He was obviously embarrassed about having to search ladies; but he did it.

  We were told that all establishments near the railroad station had similar rules. Manchester is in the west of England, near Ireland.

  A few days after our stay in Manchester, Lord Louis Mountbatten was killed by a bomb.

  Civilization is a fragile thing; once gone, it is not easy to rebuild. Those who found a civilization traditionally have unique privileges. Patrick O’Meara, Master of the Fist and onetime sergeant of Her Majesty’s Forces certainly does…

  IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER

  by Edward P. Hughes

  Patrick O’Meara lay awake in his castle, thinking of Eileen O’Connor. Down below in Barley Cross, Liam McGrath lay sleepless in his cot, also thinking of Eileen O’Connor. In another cottage in the village, dark-eyed Eileen O’Connor, clutching the rag doll she had loved since she was two, slept on in blissful ignorance.

  Around five, the younger man, no longer able to suffer inactivity, got up and pushed wide the casement. In the half-light of dawn O’Meara’s Fist dominated the skyline. Liam made out the high flak towers floating above serrated battlements. He yawned. Having seen O’Meara’s Fist framed in his bedroom window for nineteen years, Liam wearied of the marvel. Besides, like the rest of the villagers, he was privy to its infirmities—the corroded armour, the rusty rocket launchers, and the shell-less batteries. And, like most of his village contemporaries, he found it hard to imagine that the great museum piece had ever intimidated any aggressor.

  He sniffed the air scented by overnight rain. This, then, was the day. He jumped at the sound of his mother’s alarm in the next room, heard the bed creak as she got up. He shivered. Now would begin the long-awaited sequence of events destined to end that evening in the bedroom of the old Curry cottage, with Eileen O’Connor and himself, face to face, alone at last, and irrevocably married.

  “Liam! Are you going to lie on all morning?”

  He dressed quickly in his working clothes. This was going to be a day when help would have been welcome.

  His stepfather being on duty at the Fist meant that he and his mother would have to cope with all the household chores in addition to preparing for the wedding.

  But Eileen had chosen the date purposely: Andy McGrath on duty at the Fist meant a military guard of honor to greet them outside church.

  “Liam! Will you lie abed all your wedding day?”

  “Coming, Mam.” He clattered downstairs, out the back door, and across the yard. First chore was pumping the top cistern full while his mother kindled the fire and cooked breakfast. Afterwards he would milk the cows, feed the pigs, carry in the turf, chop kindling, check his snares, take the mare over to Seamus Murray for shoeing, and smuggle a sucking pig across to Eileen’s mother as the McGrath contribution to the wedding feast. With a bit of luck, he might even find time to give his chin an extra close scrape before he put on his Sunday suit for the ceremony.

  He pumped, watching the light strengthen through the branches of the overhanging apple tree, slowly exposing the detail of O’Meara’s Fist.

  He spat pensively into the long grass, wondering what the O’Meara himself was doing at this very moment. Certainly, he would not be pumping water in his old work clothes—wedding day or no. Not that the old lecher had ever needed to marry—when he had merely to lift a finger to get any woman in the village. Liam switched sides on the pump han
dle, turning his back on O’Meara’s Fist. Let the old ram lie on, probably ignorant of the news that this day the only son of Maureen McGrath was marrying the dark-eyed daughter of Tom and Biddy O’Connor. His grip tightened on the pump handle. Few people saw the old goat nowadays. There had been a day when he might have come down from the Fist to awe the reception with his presence. Liam wiped sweat from his forehead, wondering why some folk were born to rule, and others to be ruled. Although there was little sign of the Master’s iron hand these days. Indeed, if gossip were true, it was over a year since he had summoned a woman to the Fist.

  A spatter of drops from the overflow sprinkled his nape. He released the pump handle, loosed the clamp which attached hose to spout. Any moment now his mother would…

  “Breakfast, Liam!”

  He soused his head under the spout, then started back to the house, picking up the egg from the side of the byre where the brown hen laid each morning.

  Right now, up at the Fist, Andy McGrath would no doubt be dressing the guard into line for inspection by General Desmond. There was a wonder for you. How O’Meara the Ram, self-styled Duke of Connaught, Lord of Barley Cross, Master of the Fist, and lecher supreme, succeeded in inspiring the loyalty of people like Andy McGrath and General Desmond, or, for that matter, of people like schoolmistress Celia Larkin, Kevin Murphy the vet, Doctor Denny Mallon and other decent folk.

  Maybe it had something to do with the old days when the O’Meara built his Fist at Barra Hill, buttressing it with armour from the warship which foundered off Clifden and parking his tank in the driveway to the Fist on the last drop of gas. And there were the legends of his fabulous exploits, like the raid on the pill warehouse in Tuam which, they say, gave Barley Cross aspirin, antibiotics and independence.