For the Sake of All Living Things

by John M. Del Vecchio

  “Who?” Vathana did not know this man at all. “Who is this ‘we’?”

  “You don’t need to know,” Kosol said. “Just continue doing what you do and you’ll be protected. Stay away from that disgusting doctor. You look at me, not him.”

  Vathana could barely believe what she’d heard. She stood very still. Then slowly, anger and frustration drained from her face. Slowly, disbelieving, she shook her head. “Poets,” she said quietly, “are supposed to be driven by love and truth...” In her mind exploded the word infrastructure. “...not by hate.”

  “Viskii,” the waiter said to Sullivan. They were in a backdoor restaurant in a southern section of Neak Luong.

  In Khmer Sullivan said, “No. Not whiskey. Beer. A bottle of Singha if you have it.”

  “Yes. I have Singha.” The waiter smiled at the foreigner’s decent Khmer. “A bottle for Angel, too, eh?”

  “Maybe she’ll have the viskii,” Sullivan joked, and the waiter thought it was very funny.

  “A cola for me,” Vathana said. “John.” She looked at his face. “You really have learned a lot. You’re very good.”

  “I’m trying,” he continued in Khmer. “I still flip-flop the nouns and adjectives.”

  “You’re better than any American, any Frenchman, I’ve ever heard. I’m so happy you came again. You’ll stay awhile?”

  “Two days. I have to be back on the twenty-sixth.”

  “For Thanksgiving dinner, I bet.”

  He laughed. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight. Her teeth glistened. So close, she was driving him wild. “No. For the colonel. What do you know about Thanksgiving?”

  “I’m trying, too.” She smiled. “Maybe too late?”

  “Too late?”

  “The cease-fire. The American withdrawal. You’ll go now?”

  “No. Not yet. I’m...I can be carried on the embassy list.”

  “Your job is done though.” Vathana sighed. Sullivan could not keep his eyes off her. To him, everything about her was exciting, perfect. Even this seemingly sad sigh. Did it mean she would miss him?

  They had been together much of the afternoon, at the hospital tending to the helpless and the hopeless. They’d spoken little except about patient care, yet they worked well as a team and knowing that made them both comfortable. After cleaning up they’d walked by the river talking sporadically, becoming reacquainted. As always they spoke about the situation of the nation as much as, if not more than, about their own circumstances. Sullivan asked what he could tell Rita Donaldson. “If the war ends,” Vathana had said, “she won’t need me.”

  “It won’t end,” he’d said.

  “The fighting here is down.”

  “Just a lull. Not even that. Everyone in South Viet Nam is scrambling to grab as much territory as possible before the cease-fire goes into effect. The NVA have shifted to that front. And Sihanouk has...”

  “I know.” Vathana had stopped walking and they’d turned to each other. She put her hands flat against his upper arms, not pulling him in, not pushing him away, touching him lightly. To her he was, in some ways, such a boy. In other ways he was such a strong man. “I know,” she’d repeated. “But I don’t understand. Why would Prince Sihanouk reject Lon Nol’s offer of a cease-fire?”

  “It’s a game,” Sullivan had said. “I saw a copy of a captured NVA document at the embassy. Signed by Le Duan of Hanoi’s politburo. It spelled it right out. ‘...take as much territory as possible before the cease-fire...then, for political reasons, our forces must scrupulously observe any cease-fire for the first sixty days. In that time the Thieu regime will undoubtedly violate the accord by attempting to retake lost land. After formal protests we will be justified to commence renewed military struggle.’ That’s exactly what it said. That’s the plan.”

  “Then it’s a hoax!” Vathana held her hands as if praying, praying it would not be so.

  “Yes. It’s a way of getting America out of the picture.”

  “I hate this, John. I hate this all. This breaking the infrastructure! What it is doing to my people! When I told Mister Keo about the Americans breaking the NVA radio codes....”

  “What? You told who?”

  “Oh. A...an old poet friend. I haven’t seen him in weeks now...”

  “Shit! Those things weren’t to be...ah, I guess it makes no difference.”

  “It’s all inevitable now, isn’t it.”

  “Nothing’s inevitable.”

  “The Khmer Rouge, they move at will, they own the countryside. They can strike within the cities at will.”

  “No. That’s not true. Believing it makes it worse. We’ve trained eighty-three FANK battalions in two years. There’s a core of good troops here. It’s the goddamned leaders...”

  “They’re all fascists, aren’t they? Lon Nol, the Khmer Communists, Sihanouk. All of them. Extremist nationalists. Autocrats. Racists. How...”

  “Do you remember when I wrote about the stages of Communist victory?”

  “Of course. I shared it with the others.”

  “President Thieu said a few days ago, ‘Coalition with the Communists means death.’ He’s right. Here or there.”

  From the river they had gone to the Khsach Sa camp where old Sophan had greeted Sullivan with such an impassioned hug he’d reeled in shock for five minutes. How he had won her heart he didn’t know but he did catch amid the words she shot at Vathana, “This one, Angel, is better. The other is bad for you.”

  For an hour John Sullivan had played with camp children while Vathana conducted camp business. Then they’d gone to eat.

  Amid the small talk they again talked politics and war. Every moment they spent together, Sullivan felt he was being drawn to his destiny. They did not argue but agreed on most points, lamented some, felt bonded by the sadness which engulfed Cambodia. “There should be an alternative to Sihanouk and the Communists versus Lon Nol and the military,” Vathana said.

  “If only we could have influenced the FANK command more,” Sullivan began.

  “Doctor Sarin”—Vathana shook her head—“he says, ‘The roof leaks from the top down.’ He blames those at the very top.”

  “He should. Lon Nol and his astrologers...”

  “And Mister Nixon, too.”

  “Definitely,” Sullivan agreed. For a long while they did not speak of politics or of war but ate and looked at each other, smiled, fed each other particularly tasty morsels from their plates.

  When they returned to the camp the hut was vacant. Sophan, Sullivan realized, had taken the children so they could have privacy. Quietly they undressed each other. Slowly, for a long time, they made love. When they were temporarily sated Sullivan, still entwined in Vathana’s legs, whispered, “When I go, I want you to come with me.”

  “To Phnom Penh?” Vathana cooed in his ear. A pang of guilt hit her for she sensed the possibility of escaping the responsibility of the camp and her growing fear of whomever Keo Kosol represented.

  “Come to America with me,” Sullivan said. “Come with me. You and the children. And Sophan. Let me take you from this horrible place.”

  Vathana pushed up on his shoulders. He raised so they were nose to nose. He began to nibble at her chin but she stopped him. “This horrible place,” Vathana said, a cool tone entering her voice, “this is my country.”

  “Vathana.” Sullivan kissed her. “Marry me. I love you so much. Marry me. Be my wife.”

  “But”—now she pushed him higher off her—“I’m already married.”

  “Mar...” Sullivan stopped. It took a moment for the words to sink in. “I thought your husband was killed in action.”

  “No.” Vathana held his shoulders, caressed them yet held him a foot above her. “Pech Chieu Teck, he’s my husband.”

  “Teck? He’s your brother-in-law!”

  “No. We don’t live together because he’s too...Our marriage, it is only a legal contract, but I am married. Teck, too, wants me to join him. In Phnom Penh. But I...”

>   “Wha—” Sullivan could not grasp what he was being told. “Married?!” He rolled sideways releasing himself from her legs, rolled farther, sat, next to her, alone. “Married? Is it permanent? I mean...are you, did you leave him? That’s not what I...whoa!” He rolled to his knees. Vathana put her blouse on. “I love you,” Sullivan said. He said it as much to himself as he did to her, said it as he’d said it a thousand times when he was in his room, on his cot, alone, talking to her. “I’ve wanted to marry you since...”

  “Isn’t it enough to love me?” Vathana said. “I do lo—”

  “No!”

  Sullivan lay head bent, in her arms, her small breasts with their hard nipples under his cheek and neck. His eyes were open. He could see his left leg, her right, her pubic bush. She was very lovely. Very kind. Only it was, for him, all very unsatisfying and it increased the turmoil.

  “Are you okay?” Rita said softly.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Did you come?”

  “Yes. You’re a bit bigger than I imagined.”

  “Oh. Am I hurting you?” He raised his head, began to move off her.

  “No,” she said, hugging him. “I mean your dick. I haven’t been with anyone in quite a while...” She paused as if to think, then added, “We could do this again.”

  “I’d like that,” Sullivan said. He felt sad. “Only...”

  “Only?”

  “...I’m leaving. I’ve requested reassignment. I’ve decided to get out...”

  “John!”

  “...of the army.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  1973

  THE LAND IS ARID, barren. Before him rises a cliff. Rock outcroppings project to the sides. There is a shack of wide, crude-cut boards. In the harsh sunlight it looks old, weathered. He stands before it, barefoot, bare chested. There is no door. The shack is built into the rockface, the opening arch is very dark. He approaches. He attempts to peer into the blackness. About him there is not a single tree, not a blade of grass. The opening is an adit, a mine shaft entrance. The sound of digging comes from in deep. He moves into the shadow of the shack but does not pass beneath the timber frame. He thinks to call but he has no voice. He thinks to call but he has no voice. He thinks to call but he has no voice.

  For a time he stands still. The cliff shadow lengthens then melts into night. Now all is dark. No longer can he look into the darkness, into what is before him, into what is behind. Still the sounds. Groans. Digging. Laughter. The night becomes cold. The wind carries minute ice crystals, then thick snow, driven, drifting up against the shack, sealing the adit, encasing the groans, the digging. He is so cold his teeth chatter. The laughter comes from there, and there, from behind, to the side, over there. He wraps his arms about his chest, shoulders. His fingers sting near frostbite. He squats, tucks his head, hugs his legs to his chest tucking his hands between his calves. There is a crack, a snapping, a rap. He can’t...

  “John! John! Come on. Open up.” Sullivan rolls to his back, straightens his legs into the sleeping bag. “John, are you in there?”

  “Ah, yeah, one second.” His voice is sleep-hoarse. He shuts his eyes, pulls his legs back up, attempting to recall the vision, the thought.

  “Come on. It’s freezing out here.”

  It has taken the last days of December and the entire month of January for him to begin reacclimation to the cold winds of an Iowa winter, has taken every minute of that time to begin to defrost his emotional numbness, his intellectual stupor. At the end of his first tour of duty in Viet Nam his folks had thrown him a large welcome-home party. Then he’d gone back. On his second homecoming he was greeted at the airport by his parents and sister and her boyfriend. He’d gone back again. At his third return only his father met him and at home only his mother was there.

  “You aren’t going back again, are you?” his mom pleaded.

  “No. No more,” he’d said without looking at her.

  “You’ve done enough,” his father said. “Let somebody else go.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I’m out for good.”

  “I can always use you here.” His father put his hand on John’s forearm. “Gus could use you, too.”

  “Henry, that poor boy just walked in and already you’ve got him rushing off to work.” Mrs. Sullivan wiped her hands on her apron then smoothed it down against her dress. “Tomorrow night we’ll have ham with pineapple slices. And baked beans. I’ll start em soaking right now.”

  “That’s nice,” J. L. said. “But...ah, I think I’d like to go out to Uncle Gus’s.”

  Two days later he’d moved into the heated tack room of his uncle’s old barn. Then for a month he’d walked the frozen snow-covered fields, walked them at sunrise and at sunset, alone. For a month he’d slept in the tack room, not talking, not listening to a soul.

  “Come on.” Margie banged on the door. “I brought you the paper. The war’s over.”

  He moved deliberately, pulled on a pair of dungarees, let his sister in, pulled a quilted wool shirt over his tee shirt and long-johns top.

  Margie held up the newspaper. “They’ve signed the peace accords in Paris.” Her smile was broad. She was happy, thrilled, not by the agreement but for her brother.

  J. L. looked quizzically at her. He smiled his boyish smile and said, “That’s nice.” It was the same “that’s nice” he’d said to his mother about the beans, the same “that’s nice” a parent, not really listening, might say to a child who’s just reported that her imaginary friend has been run over by a bus and is now lying splattered against the walls of her mind.

  “John”—Margie dropped the paper on his sleeping bag—“why don’t you come and live at home?”

  “Yeah, I will,” J. L. said. “In a little bit. I just want to resettle a bit first.”

  “It’s been five weeks.”

  “That’s not so long.”

  “They signed the peace agreement.”

  “Yeah. That’s nice.”

  “Please come back. Mom’s sick with worry about you.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Kiddo. I’ll be back in a bit. Right now I’d just like to rest!”

  What nonsense, Vathana thought. Dear Holy and Enlightened One, what can it mean? She blinked. She dared not leave her eyes shut should the apparition return. Tigers, she thought: Of all things. Chased by tigers, as if I didn’t have enough complications. In the darkness of the hut she turned to the soft sounds of Samol and the synchronous snoring of Samnang and Sophan. Papa, she thought, he’d say it means someone is in love with me. Oh sweet Papa, sweet Mama, how I long to kiss you again. What is your life in our beautiful little town? The best of Cambodia, eh Papa? The best. Have they left you alone to grow rice? Surely they tax you horribly. It’s not as bad as some say, eh? Do you remember the time Samnang got stuck in the tree in the orchard and I went up to get him and the branch broke. Oh Papa, I thought you’d die laughing. Tigers! Of all things. They almost caught me.

  For hours she lay with her eyes open, talking to herself, to Sophan who’d become so much a part of her, to her parents and children, talking to rivermen and peasants, talking happily to hundreds of people in her mind—trying, trying so hard, to hide her fears. Through cracks in the blue plastic tarp she could see the sky graying. She thought to rise, to visit the pagoda before the children woke, but as she rolled forward her abdomen tightened spasmodically and she fought back an urge to vomit. She lay back. Where is my energy? she thought. I feel so ill. So weak. Always tired. She tried to think why but she was afraid to pursue the thought. Instead she thought of the camp. It had never been anything but poor huts with poor sanitation and poor people but now it seemed shabbier than ever. The sun had corroded the blue plastic of the tarps and many were cracked, some shredded. What would they do when the rains came? What would they do if the FANK security teams came? Overtly it was not a crime to belong to an association but there were new, unwritten rules. Even to have a friend in the associations could label one an infiltrator. From the
Khmer Rouge came irregular nocturnal conscription raids. No one was safe. Association activity had become covert, more radical. The city, like the nation, continued to move outward along the dim lines of political polarization.

  A few days before, Teck had visited her in the camp. His constantly shifting beliefs confused her. “There are rumors,” Vathana had whispered.

  “I know,” he quieted her.

  “They say they are very cruel. They kill every soldier they capture. And they kill the families, too. They take all the other people out to the forest.”

  Teck chuckled at her fears. “It’s only a transitory step, eh? It’s a necessity of war.”

  “Are government troops equally cruel?” she asked.

  “How would I know?” Teck said. His tone was light, amiable. “With the Americans gone from the South, well, one can see the future, eh?”

  “They say,” Vathana said, “the Khmer Rouge have launched new attacks against Kompong Thom. Here FANK cracks down on...”

  “FANK is much better,” Teck had retorted. “Our battalion-days in the field are back up to the best months of 1971.”

  “And you say the cruelty of the KR, it is empty rumor, eh?”

  “Some of it. Khmer are Khmer, yes? We share certain values. Some KRs might be terrible, but not all. Those madmen and atrocity stories, they’re exaggerated. You know what I believe...”

  “Teck, we should speak more quietly...”

  “...I think it is the government propagandists that start the rumors. If the KR win, they won’t be any worse than Lon Nol. Ha! They won’t be so corrupt like that Sihanouk.”

  “They say...”

  “If you are so afraid, move to Phnom Penh with me. Aah, why do I ask?”

  “...some people”—Vathana avoided his remark—“have escaped. They say the KR soldiers rip children apart with their hands. That they line up all the pregnant women and stab their bellies with long bamboo needles...”

  Teck broke into full-blown laughter. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this from an intelligent woman. You’d believe anything. Ha! Besides, you’ve got a flat belly, eh?”