For the Sake of All Living Things

by John M. Del Vecchio

  He climbed to the front doorway, ducked under a broken roof beam, looked, about. The low table in the center room could have been from any peasant home in Cambodia. Otherwise the room seemed bare. He stepped farther in. On the floor there was a filthy rag, an old krama tattered and stained. Nang grabbed it, spread the folds of its center between his good and mutilated hands and examined the cloth as if he half expected to find a written message. Then, without desire, he raised the cloth to his nose and sniffed. He pressed it to his face, rubbed it against his cheeks, held it, against his overt will, tightly to his chest.

  Nang raised his head, glanced back to ensure he was alone. He looked at the plaited curtain that divided the room. Beyond the edge he could see a family altar, a large table and two small, covered with photographs of family members. At the angle and in the confused light and shadows beneath the shattered roof he could not make out faces. Amid the framed pictures were a pair of boy’s pants, several pens, pads and gum and a bowl of rice. Nang tried to step toward the altar but could not lift his feet. He stood there, dazed, his leg muscles flaccid, vaguely trying to move forward or back but somehow unable to send the right message from brain to legs. Then his abdomen tightened and a hot burning sensation rose from his stomach up through the center of his chest to the back of his throat.

  He sniffed, snorted, shook himself. He looked at the krama in his hands, dropped it, turned to leave. Something intangible seized him. He turned again, snatched the old rag from the floor, wrapped and tied it about his waist. Then he strode to the door, hopped down, carefully collected a handful of splintered wood, piled it inside the threshold and ignited it with the lighter he’d found earlier. The flames spread quickly as if the home were entirely tinder. In minutes the flames leaped out and above the roof, reaching for the trees. Nang stood back to the far side of the parking space and watched fire backlight the little Angel House. Inside he shuddered. Good-bye, he thought. Now I have no home, he thought. Maybe I have never had one. I am the First Khmer. I have never had an ancestor. No one came before me.

  By midday 19 April the column of deportees from Phum Sath Din had traversed nearly sixty kilometers of dense jungle, following a circuitous path, generally east toward the Mekong. There were nearly eight hundred refugees and they were a miserable lot. Met Sol’s 24b Battalion had split the people into three groups: villagers and peasants in the lead; the militia and lower-strata phum workers, whom they guarded heavily, in the middle; and a loose group to be questioned and their status determined at the end. Among the last group was Chhuon and his mother, wife and seven-year-old son, plus Maha Vanatanda and three young men who had worked at the pagoda before Phum Sath Din had fallen to the Khmer Viet Minh and NVA, a half dozen strong young men who were feared to be KVM plants, and the heads of nearly all the oldest families of the village, along with their wives, children and grandchildren.

  Krahom soldiers ordered a midday halt. Refugees settled on the hillside among tall grass and dry brush. They did not spread out. No one attempted to slither off and escape. The sun was high, hot, beating the last vestiges of strength from the elderly and infirm. From the valleys of the wild forest to either side came the fearsome whooping of gibbons and the tat-tat-tat-tat of woodpeckers hammering on standing-dead hardwoods.

  “They say, Uncle Chhuon,” a young pagoda worker said respectfully, “where we are going it is very beautiful.”

  “Yes, so I’ve been told.” Chhuon’s spindly legs and bony ulcerated knees attracted flies. He had labored beyond his body’s capacity in order to reach and keep up with the column. In sitting he ached. In resting he feared he would never again be able to stand. Yet over and over he had told himself, Alive! To find him we too must be alive! It had driven him. Sok wiped Chhuon’s legs with a moist cloth. On the night of the first day’s march, when Chhuon and Sok had been reunited—physically for the first time since his incarceration, emotionally for the first time in four years—they exchanged only silent touches of hands and heart, not because of old cultural norms requiring decorum but because they were very afraid. Each now knew the other had done secret resistance work. Chhuon also, because he feared telling would damn the truth, said nothing of Samnang being alive. Nothing could yet be voiced aloud.

  The young man continued. “They told me, Uncle, that there is a town waiting for us. All the houses are new and the granaries are full.”

  “First we are liberated from Lon Nol,” Chhuon said. “Now we are liberated from the yuons. It’s good to be liberated, eh?”

  The young man did not answer but squatted in respectful silence before Chhuon—respectful not just of his age, or only because of his past status as agronomist, as village chairman, as resister, but respectful of the man for the pain and imprisonment he’d endured. In the eyes of the villagers Chhuon was more than a national hero, he was holy.

  Sok prepared rice, fed her husband. A slow, steady stream of people came to check on Chhuon, to offer him encouragement, to give him small gifts. All the while he wrote in the spiral notebook. To one side of the trail Chhuon’s mother lay on a mat. The trek had been very hard on her. The monk had helped her the first day, two boys the second, a young man the third. On this day they had helped less because they themselves were weary. In semidelirium she called for Peou though the boy had wandered off to talk to the yotheas who surrounded the column, to ask about Angkar and to look at their fine rifles.

  An entourage of soldiers followed Ngoc Minh into the small clearing. “Cahuom Chhuon?” Ngoc Minh said.

  Chhuon stared at the stiff political officer. “You know me,” he said wryly.

  “You will bring your family.”

  “Where?” Chhuon’s voice was demanding.

  “Your efforts for Kampuchea are to be rewarded.”

  Now Chhuon did not look directly at Ngoc Minh but kept the political officer at the corner of his eye. “A reward! Let me return to my town,” Chhuon said. “Let me plow the paddies and ready them for planting.”

  “You do not know,” Ngoc Minh said caustically.

  “Know?”

  “There is no more town.”

  “I saw it as I left. We could rebuild it.”

  “There is nothing left. We rescued you in the nick of time.”

  “Now what’s happened?”

  “What’s happened! You provincials are so naive. All over Kampuchea the Americans bomb towns. Two days ago they hit yours. Had we not rescued you, all would be dead.”

  “Bombed! But why? Why would they...”

  “Because they are savages.”

  “I don’t bel...”

  “It’s all for the better. There’s nothing but evil in cities and towns. There’s old money that infects the spirit. From now on there will be no money. Now”—Ngoc Minh attempted to be pleasant—“come with us.”

  Chhuon rose. The young man who had remained with him helped him up. Then he helped Chhuon’s mother. Sok began a furious search for Peou.

  “Bring all your belongings,” Ngoc Minh said. “You’ll ride in the trucks when we reach the road.”

  “My little son—” Sok began.

  “He’s with the soldiers.” Ngoc Minh suppressed a scowl. “They’ll bring him.”

  Once they were deep in the forest, a hundred meters from the column, Ngoc Minh withdrew a piece of paper from his tunic. Sok held Peou gently by the shoulders. Chhuon supported his mother. Ngoc Minh unfolded the paper and began to read. “Cahuom Chhuon, capitalist rice merchant of Phum Sath Din, born 1923, member of rebellious forces, Angkar Leou has investigated your activities. You have...”

  Chhuon froze. Sok hung her head. The old woman seemed oblivious, Peou without understanding.

  “...colluded with stinging red ants to sell your country...”

  Chhuon’s eyes darted. Alive! he thought. We must be alive to find him.

  “...these traitorous facts are clear and proven...”

  Chhuon’s mind raced. About them was a squad of armed soldiers. Thoughts of flight vanished. Though
ts of resistance were absurd.

  “...the security of Kampuchea. For such you are ordered to be severely pun...”

  Chhuon pointed up the hill, behind Ngoc Minh. “Look!”

  “...ished.” Ngoc Minh turned.

  “What is it?” Sok whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Chhuon said. There was a commotion back at the perimeter.

  “Perhaps,” came the coarse, raspy, yet lucid voice of Chhuon’s mother, “perhaps they remember it is the new year.”

  “The new year?” Chhuon repeated. “Is it...already?”

  “Who are those soldiers?” Met Mey, the leader of the execution squad, asked.

  “Cease!” A voice boomed from the hill. Soldiers appeared from the forest below the group. Then at both sides. One boy with Ngoc Minh’s armed squad swung his rifle toward those crashing closest. Three soldiers fired at him, catching him with rounds in the head; chest and abdomen. As he crumpled and fell the others dropped their arms.

  “What—” Met Mey began, but immediately was cut short.

  “Who’s ordered this?” the loud voice came from a short distance uphill.

  “Who stops us?” Ngoc Minh called. His voice trembled. A company of KK regulars had encircled his execution squad. “You,” he said, recognizing one of the soldiers. “You’re with Met Nang’s 104th. What are you doing?”

  The soldier didn’t answer. Instead the voice from uphill spoke. “Tell your squad to return to the column. The job of the Liberation Front is to help the people.”

  “Is that you, Met Na...”

  “Tell them to help the Cahuoms. They are to be protected.”

  Ngoc Minh’s squad did not wait for their leader to repeat the order. Two boys stepped toward Chhuon, one to Chhuon’s mother; three fled toward the path leading back to the column. One yothea bent to retrieve his weapon. A single round barked. He slumped lifeless. The others doubled their pace. Peou led Sok. A yothea virtually carried the frail old woman, another unweighted Chhuon and hauled the family’s bundles. As they moved past the voice from the hill, Chhuon caught a glimpse of an ugly soldier whose face was severely scarred and whose right hand had been blown apart. He wished both to stop and thank the youth and to flee, vanish as fast as possible.

  Nang stumbled to the clearing. His feet were bloody in his sandals from his forced march. He walked up to Ngoc Minh and stared the man in the eyes.

  “Why do you interfere?” Ngoc Minh demanded. “The 104th’s supposed to be along the river.”

  Nang bent and picked up the paper that had been dropped on the forest floor. He unfolded it, began to read. As he did he said, “One must develop a proper patriotic spirit, eh Brother?”

  “Why have you interfered?” Ngoc Minh said again.

  “A spirit of serving the people and the national revolution,” Nang said menacingly.

  “A spirit of proletarian nationalism and internationalism,” Ngoc Minh corrected with disdain.

  Nang laughed. He stared Ngoc Minh in the eyes. With his pincer hand he raised the page before him so as to be able to see it and Ngoc Minh simultaneously. “My father used to say, ‘Never forget our people’s legacy. Never forget the Path of the Revolution.’ You seem not to know which people are our people.”

  “I know...”

  “You’ve never fired upon the enemy. You’ve never been fired upon. Yet you direct us.”

  “I’m a politica...”

  “Silence!” Nang snapped his claw in the air. Yotheas from the encircling company closed in. “Ngoc. Minh,” Nang paraphrased the sheet, “puppet of the Viet Namese Politburo, agent of the foreign devils, Angkar Leou has investigated your activities. You have colluded with stinging red ants and aided enemies of the Khmer nation. These traitorous facts are clear and proven. You have endangered the security of Kampuchea. Angkar orders you detained.” Nang lowered the sheet slowly. His cheeks lifted, his nares expanded, his mouth curled in a bastardized smile. “You’re of Viet Namese ancestry, eh?”

  Ngoc Minh shook his head.

  “You trained in Hanoi, eh?”

  “Yes!” Ngoc Minh’s voice was excited yet firm. “Yes. You know that. Met Sar knows. I...”

  “You have a network of spies?”

  “No!”

  “The yuons”—Nang overpowered him—“they rape Khmer women and girls. I’ve heard they rub broken bones against women’s privates until they scream.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  Nang turned to Met Puc and his group. “Take him.” He gestured toward Ngoc Minh. “Subject him to ultimate measures.”

  For two days the refugees sat, rested; regained some of the strength and composure their immense losses and forced migration had sapped from them. As they rested the Krahom task force leadership struggled for new direction. Met Ung of the 71st and Met Von of the 81st advised Nhel to put Nang in Ngoc Minh’s position. “A promotion,” they said, “which surely the Center would confirm.” But Nang declined. “I’m but a soldier,” he told them. A soldier he told himself. A soldier cannot be near his origin, for if he is he will not carry forth the revolution.

  To Sar, Nang wrote a long report. In it he included a criticism of Ngoc Minh’s activities and said despite those activities the task force had achieved all the Center’s objectives. To the report Nang attached a short request. Then he sought out the young yothea, Tam, who had objected to the killing at the hospital complex. With passes and written travel authorizations from Nhel and Eng, who had moved into the task force’s vacant political officer’s slot, Von was ordered to go directly to Angkar’s headquarters at Mount Aural. Nang’s sealed message to Sar read: “I know my future. It cannot be where I once was known—but it is at the heart where more important functions await. Rabbit Number Two.”

  Two weeks later, as Nhel, Nang and others led the various columns of regained peoples into the new wilderness zones between Kompong Thom and Preah Vihear near the junction of the Cambodian, Thai and Laotian borders, little Tam returned with additional orders and with an answer to Met Nang’s request. “Rabbit Number Two will report to Central Zone headquarters for assignment. He is directed to select two cells of yothea volunteers for hazardous duty.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  JOHN SULLIVAN SAT ON the edge of his cot, his elbows on his knees, his hands limp, hanging toward the floor. His head hung, too. He stared at the floor without seeing it. The report of firecrackers—youths celebrating the Khmer New Year—jolted him internally, yet physically he masked the agitation with near catatonia. Beside him on the cot was a lottery ticket, number 797. He’d purchased it from a street vendor to use as a bookmark. The book, Faulkner’s The Unvanquished, lay splayed on the chunky square rag pad he called a pillow.

  He was not the same man. He’d made his report, then rewritten it, then been forced to reconsider and rewrite it again. His lament, his constant urgent depression: the provinces are being fucked over and those embassy bastards are drinking French wine. We must do more. He’d thought the thought a hundred times. He ran his own mental review: last week the NVA shelled Saigon with 122s, crippled Phnom Penh’s incoming freighter traffic, blocked the river, overran the border; and those guys in the embassy are in looney-tune land. The surface route between the capitals is all but closed and they swill cognac and suck down Camembert. Every day there’re new reports of Khmer Rouge atrocities—reconfirming what I wrote—but no one cares. They don’t really believe it.

  Sullivan arched his back, neck, looked up without removing his elbows from his knees, thought of Sean Flynn decapitated in the paddy, of Suong, of the new major handing him the report and saying, “The whale that surfaces, Captain, is the one that gets harpooned.”

  Sullivan rose. He walked to the wall, laid his head against the old plaster, leaned in and closed his eyes. There was fear in his eyes, behind them—a fear as if everyone he saw, everyone he’d seen while returning to his quarters, as if he’d seen them dead. The circle of men betting on fighting crickets—soon to be dead. Amid the celebrators,
the students still demonstrating against Lon Nol’s disposal of Cheng Heng as chief of state—soon to be dead. The groups of boys and of FANK soldiers kicking and throwing their puppet-balls—a ritual game reaffirming friendship—all to be shot, not heroically like Suong, but ritualistically like those dead at Turn Nop and those he and his group had skirted on their slinking trek back from Tang Kouk. The wealthy rubbing shoulders with the starving, the jugglers and fortune-tellers performing for small fees, the monks being honored and casting blessings—“What’s he saying to them?” Sullivan asked the samlo driver. “He say, ‘Happy New Year.’ ” The driver smiled—and Sullivan smiled back and felt warm and then saw them, the monks, the blessed, the driver, soon dead too. Becoming Khmer, he thought. Accepting fate, he thought. So fucking un-American, he thought. The NVA 312th and 320th Divisions were pulverizing Kontum; the 324th and 304th Divisions, with fifteen thousand troops each plus fifteen thousand attached in support and surface-to-air missile units, were leveling Dong Ha and Quang Tri; Firebase Bastogne was under siege; and Saigon was again being shelled. Action, America, he thought, and he felt good about the thought that B-52s had begun revenge bombings of Hanoi and Haiphong.

  Sullivan returned to his cot, picked up the novel, reread the page he’d been on for two days. “...this was to be the last time we would see any uniforms at all except as the walking symbols of defeated men’s pride and...” He closed the book. “...the walking symbols of defeated men’s pride...”