The Standing Committee of the Central Committee of the Kampuchean Communist-Party, the Center, infiltrated the city. Riding a wave of questionable victories they met secretly, not like animals in forest hovels but as winning commanders in conquered territory behind the new front, met in a modest wood and brick home overlooking rice fields that reached west to the Mekong. Met Sar welcomed each member. With him, smiling, her political demeanor as pleasant as the best of first ladies, Sar’s wife, Met Pon, also welcomed the party’s “old men.”
“You’ve lost weight.” Met Yon grasped Pon’s hands after passing the guards.
“A little.” Pon tilted her head slightly to one side. Her smile twitched involuntarily.
“As always you’re lovely,” Yon said. He himself was gray haired and frail. “Did China agree with you?”
“A, little yes”—Pon’s eyes fixed on the planner—“a little no. What weight I’ve lost, the Prince has gained.”
“Ha! He grows fat, yes?”
“More than ever.” Pon smiled.
Inside, the intensity of Sar’s, Met Phan’s and Met Dy’s informal talk was rising. “We’ve learned so much,” Yon heard Sar say.
Phan agreed. “When that terrifying, murderous force broke loose, our soldiers, just children, jumped into those flames, into those explosions. I”—the tactician tapped his chest—“taught many of them at Pong Pay. Ah, many died. Still their heroism saved the revolution for millions.”
Sar’s eyes flicked to the others as he spoke. “Their sacrifice makes my sense of life more acute. What greatness! What courage! The willingness to die for the future of others. Angkar must, forever, record their sacrifice.”
“And yet,” Met Dy said with bitterness, “there was the other. There was tragedy.” He turned slightly from Sar. Dy had lost a son in the Northern Corridor fighting. As the personnel chief of the Krahom, he felt as if he’d lost a thousand.
Sar seethed. “Tragedy is caused by disgraceful elements, by irresponsible allies.”
The Center’s January meeting was the most important meeting of the year. Security was tight. The entire Krahom leadership was assembled; the first planning session was attended only by the Center’s very core—the ideologues and the high generals. “They hold Kampuchea by fear, terror and ruthlessness.” There was disgust in Met Sar’s voice. “Kampuchea can be delivered only by greater terror, greater ruthlessness. Answer terror with terror, attack with attack.”
Politely Met Yon interrupted the general. “Our forces,” Yon said, “have taken magnificent steps, yet military advantage does not always fall to the successful. Until it does, the main thrust of our energies must be aimed at stimulating the internal contradictions of our enemies. Now it’s American hearts and minds...”
“It’s no longer a matter”—Met Phan shot the words at the frail Yon—“of anyone’s hearts and minds. Words are slow. We have the force.”
Met Yon rushed to change the subject. To Sar he said, “You met with the Prince, eh?”
“Meas”—Sar impatiently indicated the secretary-scribe—“has the record.”
Met Meas opened what looked like a great ledger. He recounted the formal meetings with Norodom Sihanouk and Penn Nouth. “In China,” Meas said, “there is the slogan ‘Revolution is Endless.’ Met Sar told the Prince, ‘In Kampuchea, revolution has just begun.’ ” Meas paused, glanced at Met Sar, continued. “Chairman Mao stated long ago, ‘War is the highest form of struggle for resolving contradictions.’ Met Phan told the Prince, ‘In Kampuchea, contradictions have just been broken into their elements. Now the dialectic process may surge forth.’ ” Meas closed the ledger, looked back to Sar.
“Meas”—Yon leaned forward—“I want to know more of Sihanouk. What does he do? What did he say about the battle in the Northern Corridor? About irresponsible allies?”
“We have his support,” Sar answered for Meas. “We’ve guaranteed him ours.”
“And the arms?”
“He’ll press the Chinese.” Sar turned to Phan.
“I told him,” Phan began, “the Viet Namese steal weapons destined for our armies.”
“What did he say?” Yon asked.
“He’s cognizant of yuon hypocrisy,” Sar said.
“All Khmers, I told him,” Phan continued, “need beware of the Viet desire for hegemony. He agrees. But he’s powerless. Without us.”
“It makes no difference,” Sar said, cutting the point short. “We have reached a critical moment. Perhaps, all our enemies can be defeated by destroying just one. That should be our focus, eh?”
“Who?” Meas said. “The Yankee aggressors? That traitorous Lon Nol-Sirik Matak clique? Those stinging red ants from North Viet Nam?”
Met Sar and Met Phan laughed. “For a year,” Sar said, “we’ve waited for Hanoi’s withdrawal. This is the greatest of opportunities. We’ve inherited what is justly ours.”
Phan added, “To achieve national unity we shall neutralize the propaganda of our enemies, divide those of the unliberated zones one against all and all against each other until there is confusion and no ability to withstand the Will of Angkar.”
Phan and Sar laughed again and, for a few moments, the meeting broke into paired talk. Then Met Dy addressed the group. “We reorganized the army,” he said. “We expanded our forces even while they were engaged in combat. Last quarter we lost four battalions in the Northern Corridor yet this past year’s gains have resulted in a great influx of yothea-trainees. In the northern zone alone, Met Koy notes in September he fielded five thousand fighters. Now his strength is doubled.”
“Reports from other zones are similar,” Phan said. “Along with FANK deserters, more and more recruits flee unliberated cities to join the Khmer Patriots.”
“Our territory has doubled,” Dy said. “We’ve expanded against Lon Nol and greatly against the yuon. Our population resource has increased sevenfold.”
Phan spoke again. “We were able to completely frustrate the NVA in all except the eastern and northeastern zones, and the Americans everywhere they attempted...”
“How?” Sar barked. “How have we used the Americans? Dialectics! American strength is down by four hundred thousand. Those troops once brought a false economic boom to South Viet Nam that seeped across our border. Now they’re going. In their wake is massive unemployment. Recession. Depression. Here too! As the economy worsens the lackey clique will be hard-pressed to satisfy its greed. Prices soar. FANK’s corrupt leaders steal more and more. Victims are our most vehement supporters. Organize the urban populations to prepare the way for our military advances!
“For a year we’ve denied the yuons a major city,” Sar continued. “Now we must deny them the ability to communicate their position to potential supporters. Stimulate yuon internal contradictions and isolate them from the people. Our military position must be strengthened. There’s where to use America. Assist the imperialists in destroying the yuons and assist the Viets in evicting the imperial running dogs. Public opinion is an objective factor which must be manipulated. America is vulnerable: Nixon promised the war would end. His people scrutinize his every word. Help the yuons force concessions. Be a sliver in the foot of the giant. Be a mosquito in his ear. Distract him while the wolves tear at his throat.
“But don’t publicly harm the North Viet Namese. We will beat them. Met Nang of Kompong Thom has shown all that they are not gods! But the world must witness our united front under that lackey Landless Johnny in China. Sihanouk! Bah!”
Sar stood. “Let the goal be two pronged. In prepared areas let the armies respond. In enclaves like Neak Luong and Battambang where the government still dupes the people, proceed with political offensives. As to the yuons, their flaws are our opportunities. They’re tied to preparation for a new offensive in the South. Can we eliminate that painful humiliation of COKA? FANK’s military weakness makes the republic vulnerable on the political front. Let our ideology control our actions. Our system is righteous and pure. Our strength grows. The
Khmer people, all the world’s people, have become skeptical of Lon Nol and the morality of the imperialists.”
“You can go now,” Sullivan said.
“Yep. I kin go now,” Huntley answered. He hung his head. “You gonna be ah right, sir?”
“I’m okay, Ron.”
“Goddamn fuck, J. L....” Huntley lumbered over to his old team leader, grabbed him in a bear hug, squeezed him, then let go.
Sullivan returned the hug but without feeling, as if he needed to cap his emotions, as if, if he didn’t, they would break, run wild, explode. “You really got them to extend you until I got back?”
“Ah, weren’t nothin. I knew you’d make it. But I couldn’t go till I knew you’d made it.”
“Thanks, Ron.”
“Jus one other thing, J. L.”
“Yeah.”
“Mrs. Cahuom in Neak Luong...” Huntley paused. A flash of pain shot onto Sullivan’s face. “Naw. Nothin’ like that,” Huntley said, reading Sullivan. “I got word she knew you was missin’ and was real concerned. That’s all. Ya oughta take some time, go en see her.”
“Yeah. When, Ron? When?”
“Soon as you kin, J. L.”
“You’re going to miss your flight, Ron.”
“Yeah. I gotta git.”
“I’d take you if they’d let me out of here.”
“It’ll blow over.”
“Yeah.”
Huntley turned to leave, then turned back. Again he embraced Sullivan. This time Sullivan squeezed back. “I love ya, J. L.,” Huntley said. “Don’t get yerself KIAed. This war ain’t worth it. And, ah...J. L....you don’t gotta kill all the commies yerself.”
“You hold, within your bodies, within Angkar, infinite powers.” Sar paused. In the long center aisle of the warehouse, nearly a hundred top cadre and fighters of Angkar sat on makeshift pews of rosewood, mahogany, teak or ebony. They had come from all zones, though mostly from the north, northeast and east, a hand-picked elite subcore, representing their zonal army or party center apparatus. Some had been trained at Pong Pay, some at newer schools. Some were children, most were teenagers. Seven were secretly, unknown even to themselves, tapped for provisional membership in the Kampuchean Communist Party.
The themes of the general meeting rehashed the conclusions from the Center’s meeting: move with force against the KVM and NVA and seize their areas; move militarily against FANK to create ambiguity and doubt within government-controlled areas and within the minds of the republic’s chief sponsor; covertly increase Angkar’s propaganda and proselytizing in the enclaves to stimulate contradictions and weaken the people’s will to resist. But the crux of the meeting was not themes. This was Met Sar’s show, a moment for him to display his soft-spoken piety, his polished confidence. It was a stage to build his personal following, to solidify allegiance to Met Sar. In other meetings other elements—higher cadre, zone secretaries, zone commanders—would be the target audience. But in the Stung Treng warehouse the aim was to develop ties with those just beneath the zone leaders, to develop allegiances which could circumvent the chain of command when necessary.
For an hour Sar lambasted the traitorous Phnom Penh arch-antipeople fascists: Lon Nol, Sirik Matak, Son Ngoc Thanh, In Tam, Cheng Heng, Sosthens Fernandez and all others whose names and titles flowed from his cunning mind to his tongue. In a sweet voice he explained the failings of Norodom Sihanouk and the gang of exiled leaders in Peking. He noted that their sins were caused not by malicious hearts but by stupidity and incompetence. He added that although this was a family matter to be kept within Kampuchea, those sins, for whatever reason, were committed and the people had suffered horribly from the commitment.
Then Sar stopped. A mangled hand caught his eye. “We shall develop into a society where the great majority of the working class is served by all,” he said. His eyes jumped to a disfigured face. “As in China, we too shall give the people five guarantees: enough food, enough clothing, enough firewood, an honorable funeral, and education for the children.” Nang shifted. He lay his mangled right hand on his clean black trousers. Sar’s voice roughened. “For this,” he said—his eyes would not leave Nang’s features—“we must rely solely upon ourselves. Never again can we ally ourselves with tigers who are black on one side, white on the other. Kampuchea for Kampucheans.”
Four hours later Nang stood alone with Met-Sar. “You’ve sacrificed greatly for Angkar.” Sar struggled to keep his eyes from Nang’s face and hand.
“I am...” Nang began. Suddenly, before Sar he felt powerless, felt as if he’d been reduced to a robot. “...the sacrifice.”
“Angkar recognizes your sacrifice.” Sar’s voice was flat. “You’re to receive special privileges.”
“I ask nothing,” Nang responded.
Sar reached forward. He grabbed the boy gently by both upper arms. “This must be kept absolutely secret,” he whispered.
“Never has a secret seeped from my lips,” Nang answered.
Sar raised Nang’s right hand and stared at the jumbled, scarred mass. In his mind the repulsive paw reduced the yothea’s worth. Nang suspected the older man’s thought. He sees an invalid, Nang thought. An ugly pathetic cripple to be used and discarded.
“Struggle,” Sar hissed. “Struggle hard, Nang. Nothing is impossible. Let your will drive ten cadre. Let theirs drive ten leaders. Let the leaders’ drive ten squads and the squads’ drive ten cells. In that way your will multiplies and the revolution expands.”
“It is the Will of Angkar?”
“Yes. Each Khmer shall kill thirty Viets before he dies. You must drive them. Some will kill less. You must kill more to make up for them.”
“It is the Will of Angkar!”
“In this way we will regain our lands and liquidate our enemies. Indochina shall have no Viet Nam. Six million Khmers will rule.”
“I am desire not contrary to duty,” Nang answered. Inside he tensed at his own answer. As much as he loved Sar he did not like the near-magical control that Sar had over him.
“Very good. Tomorrow you shall be brought before the Center.”
Nang had not had, perhaps, never would have, an adolescence. He had the School of the Cruel. He had yothea training. Cadre training. Ever-growing combat experience. Beneath the hundred layers of barbarity still lay a small boy who had never grown up, who perhaps would never grow up, who would react to every confrontation, no matter how slight, with survival-mode behavior learned at eleven and twelve years of age, react because the very core beneath the cold layers was as insecure and fearful as a child in nightmare, was, since the scalding of his face and the cleaving of his fingers, further frightened for its own biological integrity. At fifteen Nang was, as Sar fully recognized, a perfect candidate for provisional membership. Along with Met Rin of Svay Rieng, Met Nu, head of the quickly expanding neary force, and four others, Nang was tapped for membership because he was controllable, predictable, capable of great violence without visible remorse. Sar knew the awarding of provisional status would whet Nang’s appetite and further cement Nang’s loyalty to him. Too, it would encourage others to struggle. Giving the new status to Nang was like improving the guidance system of a sophisticated weapons system. Despite his human core, Nang had reached a new automaton level—an ideologically preprogrammed intelligence capable of learning, capable of the most complex reasoning, yet still an ideopathic robotoid. Like every weapon system, inside, at the core, lay a flaw, a vulnerability, a weakness. In Nang, it was the fear, the nightmarish insecurity of preadolescence, that made him both capable of being controlled and susceptible to losing control. As older boys were shaped for the brotherhood Nang remained aloof, alone, loyal to Met Sar’s ideology; ever climbing, ever grabbing for more influence, more power, more something to sate the insatiable, to fill a void of the past that could have been filled only in the past and thus would always remain hungry and grabbing. And to it would come new confusions, new inner contradictions.
“Come Nang.” They had met, as
Met Nu had suggested at the end of the general meeting, at dusk at the back door of the now vacant warehouse. For half an hour, Nang had wandered the streets of Stung Treng. There were no cars, no samlos, few carts or trucks. Where market women once had cackled behind stalls heaped with produce, fish, tobacco and common wares, there were only the wooden skeletons of stalls. Where boys and girls had lingered before dancehalls, there was no one. Where students had wandered aimlessly listening to their transistor radios there was a jeep with a tape recorder and an amplifier blaring a recent speech by Norodom Sihanouk out to the sampan village which still clung to the south bank of the Srepok. “...join with all Khmer Patriots to oust...” Distant small-arms fire north of the confluence had interrupted Nang’s concentration.
“Come Nang,” Met Nu said again. She was as tall as he, as heavy as he. Only in her midtwenties, Met Nu was the commander of the neary force, an all-girl-woman brigade of the Krahom. Nu’s skin, deep brown from years in the jungle, was lined and cracked but her vibrance made up for what she lacked in personal care, youth, natural beauty.
What’s happened to the city? Nang thought but he did not speak. A slow, steady, hot dry wind was being sucked from the mountains toward the vast central plains. In it city dust swirled. The city had fallen to the NVA/KVM without much of a fight and again to the Krahom without battle. Few of the two- and three-story structures showed signs of war. Stung Treng had not been bombed. Nothing was reduced to rubble. Still the city’s countenance was one of war weariness and depletion.
“Come back into the warehouse with me.” Nu smiled pleasantly. “I want to show you something.” Then harshly she cursed, “Did you hear that fucking demagogue say all that crap about Khmer Patriots? Someday I’ll have him under my guns.”
“Oh,” Nang said as they entered the darkened cavern, “the broadcast...I don’t listen to him anymore.”
Again Nu’s voice was sweet. “Come Nang,” she said. “Come here next to me.” She stood with him close, face to face. “I like you. Do you know that?”
For the Sake of All Living Things Page 60