For the Sake of All Living Things

by John M. Del Vecchio

  “We have told you,” the soldier said in perfect Khmer, “that under Prince Sihanouk there is no threat of rape or looting. Your village is protected. Our soldiers must set an example of perfect order and discipline. The Alliance of Khmer and Viet Namese shall break old barriers and build new trust.”

  “Did he really rape her?” Chhuon heard a villager ask.

  “It makes no difference, eh?” a second responded. “It’s only important to show how we are protected.”

  “Ah, Uncle.” Hang Tung’s voice came softly over Chhuon’s shoulder. “You see how they honor us by punishing one of their own who transgresses.” Chhuon turned toward Hang. Behind him Ny Non Chan’s face distorted in an eerie smile. Chhuon shut his eyes. He attempted to repeat the vow—I will become enlightened...but the demon flared, exploding in his mind, and Chan’s eerie smile repeated on Chhuon’s face. Then Hang Tung’s voice penetrated his ears and sped through the cables. “You’ve arranged for the rice?”

  Two weeks passed. In the fields, in the depleted market, at the wat, wherever citizens of Phum Sath Din met publicly, talk was about the NVA having killed one of their own to protect the village. No one spoke of Ry. No one spoke of the rice contribution, knowing a complaint, overheard, could mean punishment. In private they worried about the food stores. The harvest would be late because of the delayed start of the monsoons, and most stores had been confiscated. “A thousand kilos is not much.” Hang Tung smiled for Chhuon. “In a village this large, why, a thousand is nothing.”

  “That was not the first thousand,” Chhuon had answered, smiling, acting, keeping it light. “Nor the second or the third,” he added, almost laughing.

  “You know these peasants,” Hang Tung said. “They have rice hidden everywhere. The family bunkers are full.”

  “I think you overestimate, Nephew. Only the old families had extra and they shared it with the new people. And the army. Some people have taken to eating morning-glory greens.”

  “They’re very good. Very good for you. People should eat more greens.”

  “They need rice, too,” Chhuon said flatly, dropping the pretext of amiability.

  “The army needs rice,” Hang Tung snapped. “If COKA says one thousand kilos or ten thousand kilos or one hundred thousand kilos, the village will pay. In the meantime, tell them to plant more. You’re the agronomist. How late can late-season be planted?”

  “There’s no paddy space left. The yuons...” Chhuon halted. He glanced at Hang Tung. The boy smirked. “Our brothers from across the border have, rightly so, cordoned off all the far paddies. Those close by are...”

  “And maize?”

  “The roadways are all...”

  “And vegetables?”

  “Yes. Every family has a...”

  “You see. There’s enough. Morning-glory greens. Indeed! Perhaps the orchards should be cut to make room...”

  “The orchards! Never!”

  “Uncle!”

  Pressure from outside elements continued to be paramount in Cambodia. By midsummer U.S. domestic and political reaction to its own incursion had assured the North Viet Namese of their secure position throughout Indochina. In the outskirts of Kratie, at the new COSVN headquarters, the North Viet Namese began a slow, systematic emasculation of the Provisional Revolutionary Government of the National Liberation Front. The process was subtle, combining mild criticism sessions with reeducation—yet, ironically, because of the successes of the Allied incursion, the Southern rebel leadership was essentially imprisoned deep in Cambodia by the Northerners, and at a substantial distance from the war in the South. This allowed the North Viet Namese to substitute their own cadremen for Southerners who resisted reeducation. New-thought was to supplant old; socialist nationalism gave way to strict Northern Marxism; the petit bourgeois was purged; the proletariat served. To Hanoi, America’s withdrawal meant the superfluous baggage of the South’s fragmented political opposition was no longer necessary. The last element of civil war, not in Cambodia but in South Viet Nam, was removed, replaced by North Viet Nam’s frontal and terrorist invasions in its bid for regional hegemony. In conjunction with the removal of the Southern rebel leaders, the NVA in Cambodia began a second-phase program of massive training of the essentially apolitical, headless Khmer Rumdoah—the peasant farmers and urban youth who had rallied under the name and to the call of North Viet Nam’s new marionette, Norodom Sihanouk.

  And yet all was not necessarily lost for the Allies. For all the bungling, the unheeded advice, and the unread analyses, the incursion into the NVA sanctuaries, albeit coincidental to the administration’s announced and failed objectives, did stop the NVA from immediately toppling Phnom Penh.

  Also, for the first time in the war substantial numbers of Northern soldiers had defected; twelve thousand NVA had been killed; eighteen thousand weapons had been captured along with 6.5 million antiaircraft rounds, a million rifle rounds, thousands of 122mm rockets, hundreds of military trucks, and six Mercedes-Benz autos. A quarter million rations of rice, enough to feed four divisions for three months, had been destroyed; an entire rear service group (the 86th) had been wiped out and the main communications liaison system, responsible for training, equipping and assigning replacement soldiers, was ruined.

  North Viet Nam’s decision was difficult and hotly debated. In the end those calling for rebuilding the sanctuaries won over those who desired to plunge headlong into the now certain military conquest of Cambodia. Yet the decision to temporarily withdraw from the secondary objective (Cambodia), and to pull manpower and materiel back to rebuild the border base complexes to assist the primary objective of capturing South Viet Nam, pivoted not so much on their tactical losses as on two other factors: first, in the wake of the American domestic storm there was no possibility of a second incursion, thus new sanctuaries would be forever secure; and second, there was the fear in Hanoi that Phnom Penh’s fall would reinvigorate American hawks before they had been rendered politically impotent.

  In early September, after the news of the “liberation” of Stung Treng City reached Phum Sath Din, new orders and new horrors descended like the seven plagues. The Viet Namese Communist Party Central Committee’s (the Hanoi Politburo’s) Central Commission for Kampuchean Affairs, headed by Le Duc Tho and assisted by Vo Chi Cong (who had engineered the Khmer Viet Minh repatriation of 1969 and 1970), ordered COKA (the Central Office for Kampuchean Affairs), headed by Le Duc Anh, to reorganize the “liberated” Khmers. Directives were routed through the A-40 subdivision at Siem Reap where COKA’s headquarters were adjacent to those of the NVA.

  “There is no rice left.” Ry wept. “They’ve taken everything. Even the maize, salt and oil.”

  “I know, Sister,” Sok tried to comfort her. It was early evening. The farmers had just returned from the fields to find the new orders posted on gates, at the wat, along the deserted market row. In their homes they found enough food for three days. “They left me only one rice pot,” Sok said sadly.

  “And the boys. Where is Mister Committee Member? I should scratch out his eyes.”

  “Ssshh! Ry, you must not be heard.”

  “Where are they?”

  “My husband has argued with him all day. All day he has begged. Chhuon’s at the pagoda. Tung’s with the red-eyed devils.”

  “They’ve taken all the food. All the boys. Most of the girls.”

  “Only those over fourteen. Only for training. They’ll come back to serve in the militia. Maybe they’ll have more to eat.”

  “The sixteen-year-olds are being conscripted. But us...without food...”

  “They said it will remain in the village. There are so many with nothing, some with hoards. Now it’ll be distributed equally. It will be rationed so we do not all starve.”

  “Sok! Sok! Listen to yourself. You sound like them.”

  “Dear Sister, what can we do. My husband knows best. We must...”

  “escape.” Ry uttered the word very low. She studied Sok’s face for shock, for d
isbelief, “into the forest.”

  Sok remained calm: After a moment she responded quietly, “There are patrols.” Now Ry did not respond. “And the bombings. And it’s against the rules.”

  “tonight,” Chhuon whispered to Sok.

  “tonight,” Sok signaled Ry when they met for ration distribution.

  “tonight,” Ry signaled Ny Nimol, Ny Non Chan’s wife. Quietly throughout the village, the old people, members of the original four families, signaled one another and went home.

  “Uncle”—Hang Tung smiled at Chhuon after he’d eaten heartily, devouring a dinner of four or five rations—“in a little while you’ll accompany me.”

  “Tonight?” Chhuon asked. He blinked his eyes, fighting for an image. Then he tried to remain as empty of emotion as a rock, tried to see himself an undistinguished small stone.

  “Yes. Were you going somewhere?”

  “Only to bed,” Chhuon answered. “The rain’s heavy and my knees are swollen. I hoped to sleep.”

  “Sleep later. Tonight we’ll have fun. Major Nui has invited me to play cards. You must come.”

  “Oh Nephew, I’m so tired...”

  “You must come. We’ll leave at 2100 hours. Rest now.”

  The card game took place at Ny Non Chan’s house. Chhuon, Chan, Major Nui, Cadreman Trinh and Hang Tung sat at a low rectangular table, Major Nui at one end, the other end open. At the center of the table there was a charcoal heater. Above it, boiled a pot of oil. The men had finished snacking on thin slices of crayfish flash fried in the oil. Nimol removed the pot, leaving the embers exposed. Chhuon felt mesmerized by the glow. He stared at one particular coal glowing brightly on two edges, cracked and dark through the middle.

  “They’re very hot, eh, Uncle?” Hang chuckled pleasantly.

  “Yes,” Chhuon said self-consciously.

  “You seem preoccupied tonight, Chairman Cahuom,” the cadreman said.

  “It’s the crayfish,” Chhuon said. “I used to catch them in the river with my boys. I haven’t tried it in years.”

  “Some of the soldiers caught these.” The cadreman smiled. “They’re camped by the bridge tonight. Perhaps we’ll have more tomorrow. They shine a light into the river and it attracts them. That’s how they do it.”

  “Oh.” Chan tried to look amused. “I’ve always caught them during daylight.”

  “Ah,” the cadreman chuckled. “But the big ones emerge only at night.”

  Nimol returned with a bowl of watermelon seeds. She removed the heater. The seeds were a gift from Major Nui. As the major shuffled the cards Chhuon, feeling guilty, ravenously yet delicately picked at the seeds.

  “Do these come out at night, too?” Chhuon tried to joke but the humor fell flat. Hang checked his watch. It was nearly midnight.

  In the far distance, perhaps ten kilometers, a faint rumbling could be felt. “Those bastards,” Major Nui said. “Every night, every day. Why do they bomb? Troi oi! Almost never do they connect. They keep me awake.”

  “Come, deal the cards.” Hang Tung laughed.

  Chhuon raised his first card but he did not recognize it. He was thinking about the river, about tonight. Why tonight? Though it was not the first night he’d played cards with the Viet Namese, it was the first time the game had been called on such short notice and for such a late hour.

  “The major tells me,” Hang Tung began, his smile wide, “that we’ll be seeing new rules tomorrow.”

  Chhuon did not take the bait. He still had not recognized his card but thought it was not a card at all but a faint moving growing sheath, growing like a crystal, like his demon. His eyes darted up to Chan then dropped to the card. He wondered if the others could see his card pulsate. He cautioned himself, tried to be the rock.

  “What new rules?” Chan asked, picking up his second card.

  “New passes,” the major said. “With all this bombing we can’t let anyone travel without a complete itinerary.”

  Chhuon lifted his second card. As it touched the first the demon’s filaments spread and concealed its face. The emotions of a rock, Chhuon thought.

  “No one travels now,” Chan was saying. He reached for some seeds.

  “Any unauthorized travel will be dealt with most severely,” Hang said.

  “That’s as it’s been. What are the new rules?”

  Hang put his cards down. “It’s strictly a matter of paperwork,” he said. “New request forms. New passes. And enforcement.”

  At that, rifle fire was heard erupting by the river. Then screams. Chhuon jolted upright. Chan slumped imperceptibly. The major paid no attention. Cadreman Trinh and Hang Tung smiled.

  “Troi oi!” The major dropped his hand. “Let’s see if they’ve got more crayfish.”

  The riverbank was lit with torches and lanterns. On downriver trails flashlight beams flickered between tree trunks. A dozen Viet Namese, soldiers and a dozen young Khmer militiamen cursed, prattled, strutted. Four bodies lay by the water’s edge—two children, two women. The soldiers laughed, congratulated one another on the fine kills. A radio rasped. The two men who’d fled downriver had been caught.

  Chhuon watched, empty, the rock, yet worried, agitated deep within. The soldiers soaked rags in gasoline and jammed them into the men’s mouths. Their ankles were tied, their elbows wired together behind their backs. The soldiers toyed with a torch, bringing it close, then withdrawing it, then again bringing it near to the rags. Chhuon knew both men. One was Chhimmy Chamreum, second son of the head of the Chhimmy family, the second-oldest family in Phum Sath Din. The other was Chan’s brother, Ny Hy San. Chan, very much in control, very cool, stepped toward his brother. “You idiot!” he denounced San. “What were you doing out here?” Chan reached to grasp the rag from San’s mouth but Hang grabbed Chan’s arm. “Let go of me. I’ll deal with him. He’s my brother. This is a family matter.”

  There was commotion on the ill-lighted riverbank as soldiers subdued Chan. Still Chhuon watched. He did not move. Did not speak. Horrified, yet numbed, Chhuon, the rock, the undistinguished small stone which no one will notice, did not even gulp air.

  San and Chamreum tried to vomit the rags from their mouths. The fumes alone made them nauseous—the taste, the fear intensified. Soldiers made bets. San tried to push the rag from his mouth with his tongue, tried to work his jaw, tried to call to his older brother and to Chairman Cahuom, but the rag had been jammed in, packed in, and his gagging could not dislodge it.

  “The new orders...”—Major Nui broke into Chhuon’s numbness—“the new orders, you’ll post them tomorrow, eh? Anyone caught attempting unauthorized travel will be dealt with severely. Anyone unaccounted for will cause three others to be punished.”

  Chamreum’s rag flared. He could not scream. San shuddered, unable to watch, unable to look away. Chamreum jumped horribly as his skin burned. Unable to hold his breath he inhaled through his nostrils. Hot flaming gases were sucked into his nose, yet still his diaphragm dropped, dropped uncontrollably, dropped sucking the flame into his lungs. His face burned, the stench was disgusting. San leaped back from a soldier approaching with a torch. Chhuon recognized the troop. He was not NVA but a local militiaman, a boy, his own son’s tormentor, Khieng. Chhuon bowed his head. San dodged back, jerked left, right. The soldiers laughed at the comical man with the gasoline-wet rag hanging from his mouth. Chamreum collapsed to his knees, dying from suffocation, not burns, dying as the fire consumed the oxygen about his face, dying because his seared lung linings could not have absorbed oxygen had there been any in the air to inhale.

  Chan could not watch, could not save his brother, because soldiers still held him. He turned his head to Chhuon. The rock, the stone. Somehow, Chhuon, under Chan’s eyes, saw himself at fault. Somehow they read him, read his mind, learned of the escape plan. How many attempted? How many others were caught, will be caught? Did any succeed? The village will hold Chhuon responsible. Hadn’t he picked the night? How many villagers saw him with the major tonight? There was no
other way. The rock, the stone. Without emotion Chhuon watched as Khieng lunged at San, watched as the rag ignited, as San fell back, down the bank into the current. The flame died. There was thrashing as San tried to right himself in the rushing waters of the Srepok. More thrashing then nothing. The current grabbed him, washed him away.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE NEWS OF PECH Lim Song’s execution had reached Vathana the day the first American craft docked in Neak Luong. For months afterward, she felt she would always associate Americans with sunshine and death. Through the tedious summer-month monsoons and into the fall she caught herself at odd times quoting Mister Pech to dockworkers, rivermen or refugees. Then she’d find tears welling in her eyes as his image and that of old Sambath came to her. And she would feel as though someone had ripped out her soul, as if her insides had been scraped clean leaving an empty cavity. And always the image mixed with clouds breaking in late afternoon, with sun rays beaming upon Americans and their war boats. Long after U.S. forces were withdrawn, after the Mekong from Saigon to Phnom Penh became, if contested, a South Viet Namese military highway, Vathana found herself searching the piers at dusk for the hairy long-nosed men who when they spoke flailed their arms like barbarians, whose crudeness and uncontrolled body movements both disgusted and amused her. Not until late September, after a force of two hundred South Viet Namese riverine vessels with fifteen hundred marines swept through the swamplands across from Neak Luong, between the Mekong and Bassac rivers, clearing out a major NVA/VC base area, did Vathana see another man from the United States.