For the Sake of All Living Things

by John M. Del Vecchio

  “Driver!” Sullivan’s junior lieutenant escort said to the civilian behind the wheel. “Stop here!” He turned to Sullivan who was standing, draped in a poncho, in the back of the topless car. “Monsieur,” the escort officer said, “let’s urinate on this foul land.”

  Sullivan’s face broke into a smile. “Go ahead. I’m fine.” The man got out, walked to the east shoulder and peed into the paddy. Sullivan fixed his eyes on the low swampland to the west. Were they to be attacked from either side there’d be no place to go. But an attack up from the swamp or through the paddies would be suicide for the attackers. No, he thought; we’re not open to attack here. To snipers, yes. To mortars, artillery, yes. But to troops...

  The driver switched on the radio. Since the column had set off, Lon Nol had delivered daily harangues over Radio Phnom Penh. Sullivan recognized the voice but not the words. He looked back north toward Pa Kham. The silhouette seemed to advance before them.

  “Has there been any word from the reconnaissance teams?” Sullivan asked his escort in French.

  The man shook his head. “Too much rain today for reconnaissance teams, no?”

  “Photo reconnaissance?” Sullivan prodded.

  The escort officer smiled. He pointed to the radio. “He says there is a great victory in the making. The column has reached Puk Yuk, eh!” Sullivan did not recognize the name as pronounced in Khmer. “Puk Yuk. Puk Yuk.” The escort produced his map and stabbed his fingernail just south of Kompong Thom. “We must have a great celebration.” He clapped his hands. “Already to Puk Yuk, eh!” He clapped a hand on the driver’s shoulder. Then to Sullivan he said, “Listen to him.” He turned the volume up.

  “What does he say?” Sullivan asked. He damned himself for not having picked up enough Khmer to understand the quick radio speech.

  “He says he has a dream.” The small officer smiled from ear to ear. “He says, ‘I see armed Viet Namese. I see their tanks. I see them fall and burst into flame before Buddha. I see Colonel Um Savuth, commander of the Chenla II task force...I see him entering all northern cities carrying a statue of the seated Buddha. Behind Colonel Um I see fallen thmils. Soldiers of FANK, cut your skin, allow Lord Buddha to enter and strengthen you. If the foreign atheists are victorious they will usher in the last dark days when all that is evil will reign. Fight hard, holy warriors. I see great victory for you in this glorious battle. Fight for the very survival of Buddhism!’ ”

  The escort officer beamed. Sullivan politely returned the smile. He looked up. Pa Kham floated in the mist and drizzle to the north of the stalled column. I see, he thought, I see twenty thousand soldiers and forty thousand dependents stretched from Skoun to Puk Yuk. I see an open front seventy kilometers long and two lanes wide.

  Nang had led his new unit south from Phum Voa Yeav, east around Kompong Thom then southwest parallel to the highway, skipping from hamlet to forest camp to hamlet. No longer was he independent but in trade for that freedom he now commanded a company of eighty armed yotheas, the 2d Company of the KT 104th Battalion of the Army of the North.

  The Krahom had made great gains in areas that the NVA had shifted away from, yet, to the Center, it was not enough to pick up scattered spoils. The radical nationalist Communists were determined to halt any further Viet Namese Communist victories. Thus did the Krahom set a course to deny the Viet Namese (in the exact terms Americans also used) the population resource. To do so the Krahom leadership had ordered an abrupt and rash reorganization, changing their light infantry army from company-sized elements (which it hadn’t yet totally achieved) to battalion-sized units capable of engaging similar enemy elements.

  The Krahom companies traveled in secret—covering five, ten, twelve kilometers each day or night. Nang waded his yotheas through paddies chest deep in water, pausing to rest, unseen, on scattered islands between the congested highway where FANK plodded and the higher land farther east where the NVA struggled to unmire its T-54 tanks and its long line of two-and-a-half-ton trucks which had bogged down where B-52s had found and blasted the camouflaged dike roads, swamping the countryside. One-day’s march ahead of the 2d of the 104th was their sister company, the 3d of the 104th, commanded by Nang’s protégé, Met Horl. Behind them were two more light infantry companies plus the battalion command post led by Met Mita, an older man in his early thirties. With Mita was Eng, Nang’s politically pure friend. Attached, too, to the battalion command post, or CP, was an independent platoon of neary led by the legendary and ruthless Met Nu. Met Soth, who had denounced Nang so long ago, now commanded a platoon in the 2d Company of the KT 108th.

  To Nang the travel, the new situation were unsettling. As they circled Baray and headed toward Pa Kham his mind lapsed from thoughts of battle to thoughts of his new chains and new powers, and of the organization he’d built and left in the North. He thought of the hamlet chief at Voa Yeav 3 and of the statements he, Nang, Nang of Angkar, had made to the pathetic man. “Anyone who harms you...” It was not an approved statement of proselytizing propaganda, not a tested scientific slogan designed to make the hearer respond to his Communism, but words which harkened back further—earlier than his training in China, earlier than Pong Pay Mountain, earlier than, than what? His mind wished to stop with his rebirth into the Krahom yet there was something before, something gnawing at his mind, trying to resurface, to reassert itself. How? How could something so dead rekindle?

  Nang laughed to himself. They had reached a preestablished station. About him in the treeline camp his yotheas picked leeches from each other’s skin. What wonderful propaganda lines, he thought as the idea continued to roll in him. At the moment he’d have liked to thank Sar, or whoever had given it to him. How the elders ate it up. “...who harms your crops, your people...” What more did they have? It was almost all he had had to do to convince some. How badly they wanted to believe. And why not? Everyone harmed them in the name of some self-righteous cow dung. The lying scum, Nang thought. Worst of all are the Americans. No, worst were the Viet Namese. Or maybe Lon Nol and his clique were the worst. Only Angkar could protect the people against the scourges of the cruel and ruthless aliens. “...or your belongings, is your enemy. Blood for blood.” American, Chinese, Viet Namese, all had acted to denounce their humanity: “For all eternity...revenge. For Chhuon. Blood for blood.” Nang stopped. For Chhuon? he thought. He paused, puzzled. Then, standing abruptly, he screamed, “Fucking buffalo! On your feet. Angkar wishes you to move quickly. Do not stop to think. Angkar will think for you.”

  “Comrade Nang,” Met Hon, who had been Sergeant Sakhon of FANK’s listening post, stopped the commanding officer.

  “Met Hon.”

  “There’s a runner from Met Mita.”

  “Has he the new map?”

  “I don’t...”

  “Forget it. Bring him here.”

  Quickly the runner and the company commander conversed. Words flew. Fast advance, fast attack, fast withdrawal, fast dispersal. Nang pulled his hair. Four fast but none slow. How can we do this without preparation? How? “Hon!”

  “Yes, Met Nang.”

  “Find someone who knows this village.” Nang pointed to his map.

  In the miles of rice fields southeast of Baray between Highway 6 and the plantations, there were hundreds of tiny hamlets connected, at best, either to Highway 6 by narrow raised dikes wide enough only for a single oxcart or, via dike roads, to the better plantation road network and then to Highway 21. During the heaviest rains many of the communities were totally cut off. Even during the dry season few peasants ventured from their village or fields—to them a trip to the next village was a major undertaking.

  Hon returned. “We’ve no one from this area.”

  “Tomorrow we’ll liberate this settlement.” Nang pointed to an unnamed hamlet near the village of Phum Chamkar.

  “Yes,” Met Hon said. “Met Nang,” he added, “there is new word on the radio.”

  “What new word?”

  “There is great celebration in Ph
nom Penh. Colonel Um’s column head has reached Kompong Thom.”

  “Ah,” Nang sighed. “What great fortune.”

  “Great fortune?!”

  “Yes, Hon. You’ll see.”

  By nightfall Nang’s company had surrounded the unnamed hamlet, itself surrounded by a sea of flooded paddies. The young soldiers wrapped themselves in their mosquito nets. Tired, sore, pushed to the limit by the forced march, by a lack of decent rations and by the harshness of the untamed tropical environment, they slept. “Tomorrow,” Nang said as he moved amongst them, “tomorrow you’ll understand. We have two enemies. Tomorrow will begin me new life. Don’t complain. You’ve been fated for glory.”

  Before cockcrow they moved, silently, some along the radial dikes which converged on the hamlet like spokes on the hub of a wheel, some through paddy water that threatened to float the youngest and shortest away. They moved to the edge of the waking hamlet, then, on signal, they marched in, silent, somber, afraid yet showing no fear. Amid the wood and match homes the tiny marketplace was deserted. The yotheas advanced. Then black shirts and pants were soaked, filthy. Each boy wore a red-checked krama as a belt to keep his shirt bottom closed, to keep leeches from inching up onto their torsos. They turned outward and waited.

  The first peasants greeted them with surprise. “Who are you? Where are you from?”

  “Met Hon.” “Met Rath.” “Met Bun.” They answered. “Met Ouk from Kompong Thom.”

  “Kompong Thom! So far away.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you?”

  “Met Nang of Angkar.”

  “Angkar? Where is that?”

  “Angkar. We are the resistance. We are the nationals who have come to protect you from the advancing hordes.”

  “Who advances?”

  “Thmils. They’re in the plantations to the east and on the roads in the west.”

  “Yes. We’ve heard on the radio. But I don’t know you.”

  “Where is your village head?” Nang looked about. “We have gifts for him.”

  More villagers appeared. Seeing the yotheas chatting amiably with their kinsmen and neighbors they came without fear and greeted the boys with food and drink.

  “When every day we bend our backs in the fields,” Nang heard an old farmer tell a yothea, “it’s difficult to pay attention to national news. Still, we are Khmer, like you.”

  “And like us, Grandfather,” Nang interrupted, “like all Khmers, you want independence and sovereignty.”

  “Oh yes. We are Khmers.”

  “Lon Nol has sold the country to the Americans...” Nang began the familiar lines but before he could continue, a commotion to his back halted him. He did not turn but watched the old farmer’s face and the eyes of his own fighters. There were two men or two groups approaching. Nang took a deep breath. Exhaled a small. Contracted.

  “Welcome,” one voice called. “Who is your commander?” Nang turned slowly. A middle-aged man faced him. With the man were two younger men. All three were dark, obviously farmers. Off to one side was another pair, also young, yet their skin was much lighter. They whispered between themselves. “We are a farm village,” the middle-aged man said, now following the eyes of the silent yotheas to Nang. “There’s no need here for an army.”

  “Papa,” one of the men with him said quietly, “he said he had gifts.”

  The man approached Nang. They exchanged greetings. Nang kept his face turned, hiding the scarred side. He smiled his impish smile, laughed his infectious laugh. “For you, Uncle. For the protection of your village.” Nang signaled and quickly Met Ouk came forward with two AK-47 assault rifles. “There are armies very close by,” Nang continued. “It is Angkar’s wish that we serve you.” With that Nang handed the headman the two weapons. All about, villagers breathed easier. Had these boys meant them harm certainly they would not have armed the headman.

  Nang hid behind an enigmatic smile as his eyes darted here, there, into the marketplace, down along the row of houses. The second pair of young men had left.

  “You shall eat...” The man’s eyes fell on the right side of Nang’s face. He stuttered, coughed, cleared his throat. “...with us. Share our homes. When the danger has passed, you shall leave.”

  “While the danger is present, then”—Nang’s eyes beamed—“you will help us mobilize the people for national defense.”

  “Of course. It’s just as Mister Ea Eang has said.”

  “Ea Eang?”

  “Yes,” the elder answered. “And Taun Than. They have organized us, too. You know them, eh?” He turned looking for the pair of light-skinned men. “You too struggle to bring back Samdech Euv, no?”

  “The Prince”—Nang smiled broadly—“is behind us.”

  That day the rains fell in sheets and that night the wind blew with great force. Again the morning came with torrential downpours and again an evening with gusting winds. On the morning of the twelfth of October a runner from Met Mita crossed a radial dike and entered the hamlet. Met Rath and Met Von followed his approach, looking down the barrels of their rifles. They intercepted him and Von lead him to Nang who had slept in a stall in the tiny central market. Quickly they spoke. Then the runner fled, retreating along a different route.

  At midday Nang squatted amongst half a dozen women at one end of the thatched open-sided structure. Yotheas had repaired the wind-damaged roof and now all were clearly seen amongst the laborers in the fields. For two hours Nang had entertained the marketers with stories of his travels. Then he told them, “My father was killed in the bombings.” His voice was mournful as he described for the ladies his father’s mutilated body and saddened face just before death.

  A cackle arose at the far side. Then several women ran from the market and a wave of silence rolled from that corner. More women, towing toddlers or clutching babies, ran. Nang smiled. Softly he continued; “The yuons butchered the others. They toasted my smallest sister and ate her.”

  “There he is.”

  “That’s him. With the face. He’s the Rabbit.”

  On each side two armed men locked their eyes on Nang. “Some yuons wear Khmer bodies.” Nang’s voice came measured. “Some have been tricked into supporting the Northern Viets even though they eat children...” He did not move. His listeners no longer heard his words. At first they simply looked out from the circle. Then one leaned out, slid back on her butt, rolled to her knees and ran. Others were frozen in terror.

  “Move away from the women,” one man ordered. Nang didn’t budge. Another lady, then a third, bolted. “Put your hands on top of your head.”

  Very softly Nang muttered to the closest woman, “Is that Ea Eang?”

  Her voice too came soft. “No. Taun Than.” She began to back away but Nang’s hand held her sarong skirt fast to the ground where she sat. The fourth and fifth women fled.

  “He’s the yuon agent,” Nang whispered. The woman didn’t respond.

  Taun Than aimed at Nang one of the AKs Nang had given to the village chief. Nang turned toward the closest house. Ea Eang shouted from the side. “Get up. Let the auntie go.” The two Khmers who had been with the Khmer Viet Minh agents stepped away.

  Nang rose, still holding tightly to the woman’s skirt. “Perhaps,” he said loudly, “it is time.” Immediately from behind stall partitions rose three neary. Nang faced his assassins. They were not without backup.

  “Now is Rabbit’s turn,” Than called. About the marketplace a dozen Khmer Viet Minh militiamen stepped from doorways, from the rice silo, from behind the village well. Than snickered. “Now, Rabbit, come out. Tell those girls to drop their rifles.” Eang laughed heartily.

  Nang laughed too. “Your boys are unarmed,” Nang said.

  The eyes of the agents jumped to their militia, back to Nang, to their troops, to the neary who aimed at their hearts. Than lowered his rifle. His face paled. His militiamen stepped forward, their hands on their heads. Behind each was a black-clad girl. Some held pistols, most had only knives or clubs
.

  Now the woman beside Nang spoke, “Drop your rifle, Than.” Than lowered his. Eang dropped his. Then Than let his fall. “Take them to the paddies,” the woman told the neary. She turned to Nang. “Now you must let go of my ass.” She laughed and from Met Nang escaped a sly titter. “Met Nang...”

  “Yes, Comrade Nu.”

  “Someday...”

  “Yes.” Nang’s eyes jumped.

  Nu’s face became hard. “Today, you tell these people how to think of this.”

  “Yes, comrade.”

  Again Nu laughed. “It is as Angkar wishes.”

  “When it’s this wet,” the new escort officer translated, “we need more fuel.”

  Sullivan made a note in the pad he carried. In six days he had only reached one kilometer north of Phum Pa Kham. His driver, escort and vehicle had changed. The new men smelled from living cramped in the sedan, and Sullivan found he too had begun to stink.

  And now this. Sullivan looked with disgust at the carnage. Colonel Chhan Samkai, too, was disgusted though the carnage delighted him.

  The command post had headed three hundred meters northwest along a small road which led to an unmarked hamlet in the low forest. “First they all cheer,” Colonel Chhan ranted to Sullivan in French. “ ‘Bravo! Bravo! The army has saved Kompong Thom!’ Now they riot.”

  “Isn’t that directed at the chief of state?” Sullivan said. A FANK soldier with a beaming smile walked by. Seeing the commander and the American his smile broadened further and he lifted and displayed the two human heads he carried by their hair. Sullivan flashed a satirical grin, then a morose look of disapproval.

  “He’s commander-in-chief. If he suspends the Assembly he is right to do so.” On 16 October 1971 Premier Lon Nol suspended the Cambodian National Assembly and announced in nationwide broadcasts that he had assumed full power and would rule by executive decree. Democracy, he declared, hampers the fight against communism.