by C. L. Hoang
Praise for Once upon a Mulberry Field
Finalist of 2012 San Diego Book Awards (Category: Unpublished Novel)
Compelling story . . . written with much thought and preparation . . . The content is so rich and wonderful . . . (This book) is different from anything I’ve ever read or judged before.
—JUDGE’S COMMENT
Once upon a Mulberry Field is a poignant, heartrending story of American and South Vietnamese friendship, respect, and love, set at the height of the Vietnam War. Through a unique insider’s view, this intriguing novel gives the reader a close-up look at personal aspects of the war. C. L. Hoang has masterfully captured that turbulent chapter in the United States and South Vietnam history. Readers will be moved by this historically important, unforgettable book. I could not recommend it more highly.
—DAVE CAREY, CAPTAIN, USN RETIRED, FORMER POW IN THE HANOI HILTON,
Author of The Ways We Choose: Lessons for Life from a POW’s Experience
C. L. Hoang’s novel, Once upon a Mulberry Field, brings gripping authenticity and new perspective to the Vietnam War. Through an array of American and Vietnamese characters, we experience the charm and beauty of this lush, war-torn country—interludes of love stolen between unspeakable loss. Set at Bien-Hoa military base near Saigon in 1967, the height of the war and the Tet Offensive, as well as decades afterward in California, this book will move you to tears. Yet it ends with a redemption impossible to foresee.
—KATHRYN JORDAN,
Author of the novels Hot Water, Gladys and Capone, and In the Time of Apricots
Once upon a Mulberry Field is a captivating story that rings true and will bring back countless memories for those who served in Vietnam. For others, it provides insight into the ironies and tragedies that were part of the Vietnam experience.
—PETER CALDWELL, MD
Author of Bac-si: A Doctor Remembers Vietnam
Once Upon A
Mulberry
Field
A NOVEL
C. L. Hoàng
Willow Stream Publishing
San Diego
Once Upon A Mulberry Field
by C. L. Hoàng
Copyright © 2014 by Chinh L. Hoang
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission from the author or the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Published in the United States by Willow Stream Publishing
[email protected]
ISBN (Paperback): 978-0-9899756-7-4
ISBN (e-book): 978-0-9899756-8-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013950346
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover Design: Derek Murphy
Interior Layout: Nick Zelinger (Paperback)
Nick Taylor (e-book)
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events; to real people, living or dead; or to real locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
First Edition
In loving memory of my parents
who lived through it all with untold courage and grace
Mulberry fields forever
Where the blue sea once was . . .
A new season of upheaval
Has cloaked my heart in sorrow
—Nguyễn-Du, Vietnamese poet (1766–1820)
Contents
Preface
PART I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
PART II
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
PART III
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
PART IV
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
Note To Readers
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Appendix
Preface
One of my favorite authors is Jack London. It has been said that while growing up in a portside neighborhood of West Oakland, California, in the late 1800s, the future writer would hang around a local saloon called Heinold’s First and Last Chance, listening to sailors and journeymen recount their adventures. Those eavesdropped yarns left a lasting impression on young Jack and later inspired him to an adventurous life of his own. Many of the tales found their way into the great novels that would propel him to worldwide fame.
Few of us are born to such glorious destiny. But we all remember our own First and Last Chance, that special place in our childhood—at the knee of a grandparent, at the family’s dining table, or in the classroom—where we first came to learn about life through fascinating stories of love, courage, and occasionally, sorrow. Stories that would stay with us the rest of our days and influence our lives in more ways than we could have imagined.
My early memories of my childhood in Sài-Gòn during the Việt-Nam War were filled with tales of a different kind: the real-life stories of struggle and survival and, more often than not, of death and destruction. The tentacles of war had touched virtually every family in our homeland. It was a reality from which no one could hide, not even children.
When I came to America in the mid-1970s at the end of the war, those memories were buried under the day-to-day demands of a new life and lay dormant for the next three decades. Until, as a nostalgia project for my dad, who was up in years and ailing, I began to scour the Internet for old photographs and writings about our former hometown—Sài-Gòn in the 1950s, ’60s and early ’70s. Before I knew it, a bygone world had reopened its door and pulled me in.
As my father and I reminisced about that forgotten place and time we had once shared and the people, events, and stories that had defined it for us, it occurred to me that I should write down those recollections. First, as a legacy of family history for upcoming generations. And second, as my way of bearing witness to the period of upheaval that had seen our family transplanted to a new continent.
To ensure historical accuracy, I would do in-depth research on the documented Việt-Nam War before putting pen to paper. Lit
tle did I suspect that in the process I would open another door. Through various websites and published memoirs by American veterans who had served in Việt-Nam and through my conversations with some of them, I caught a revealing glimpse into their experiences. These voices of truth, lost in the political cacophony of the time, all contributed to an oral history that should be heard—and preserved, for the veterans’ families and for those still in search of answers.
It was my wish to bring together those two very distinct yet complementary accounts of the war: the personal stories of the native people who had suffered through it, and the life-changing ordeal for the participants from a distant land. But instead of compiling a collection of disparate anecdotes, I felt it better to weave them into a single, coherent narrative around a cast of fictional characters. And despite the background of turmoil and violence, I knew from the outset I did not want to write a “war book.” In my heart, Once upon a Mulberry Field is first and foremost a love story—an ode to the old and the new homelands, and a celebration of the human spirit and the redemptive power of love. In an attempt to be objective and to view things from a perspective different from the one I had known growing up, I chose to recount the events through the voice of an American soldier. Needless to say, it was an eye-opening experience.
As I’m putting the finishing touches on this six-year labor of love, my thoughts drift to the fallen victims of the Việt-Nam War and to the millions of others whose lives were affected by it, or for that matter, by any armed conflict. This book is dedicated to all of them.
San Diego, California
December 2013
C. L. Hoàng
PART I
“What Beck’ning Ghost”*
San Diego, California
September 1999
*Alexander Pope (1688-1744)
Chapter One
It’s a given. Most of us don’t get to choose the timing of our own demise.
But if presented with the option when such time nears, would we step up, seize our last remaining privilege, and decide how graceful our final bow will be?
On this brilliant afternoon of the last summer of the millennium, I feel exhilarated and free, having reached my decision on this ponderous matter.
Life at Whispering Palms Senior Community carries on as before—a steady succession of leisure routines occasionally interrupted by nonevents. Laughter streams into the men’s locker room from the swimming pool. I can hear bodies thrashing about in the water, followed by the patter of wet footsteps chasing one another down to the whirlpool, then the swooshing of the hot bath swirling on. Another day in paradise, as members of the mission-style clubhouse often remark with contented smiles, in between nodding off on lounge chairs in the hot, dry breeze of Southern California.
A shadow moves past my locker toward the exit. Glancing up, I rush after the old man before he stumbles, stark naked and dripping wet, into the harsh sunlight.
“Al, buddy,” I say, grasping his elbow.
“But I showered,” he protests.
“Your swim trunks. You need to put them on.”
He looks bewildered for a moment before a blush shows under his tanned wrinkles.
I let go of his elbow, and he lumbers back to his locker. Poor Al, never quite the same since his wife died last year. After he is properly suited, we traipse out to the whirlpool in silence.
Long, airy corridors under red-tiled roofs encircle the pool courtyard. Above them rises the decorative bell tower, almost as tall as the swaying palms that give the neighborhood its name. Not a wisp of cloud threatens the sparkling sky, and aside from the mournful cries of a dove, time hangs still. Such an idyllic setting. A tranquil harbor for old ships, albeit one that can’t keep out the undertows of life.
“Well, looky here!” A girlish voice greets us as we tiptoe into the bubbling bath. “Hello, Al. Hi, Doc. Where’ve you been?” My neighbor Margaret slides over, leaning against the man seated next to her. He stretches his arm around her ample shoulders and makes room, causing mini-waves of steamy water to bounce off my chest.
“This is my boyfriend, Buster.”
The balding man half rises and reaches out with his big hand. A scar several inches long runs down the middle of his heavy chest. He must be a visitor; I haven’t seen him around before.
“Buster didn’t believe me when I said I live next door to Marcus Welby, M.D. See, hon? Isn’t he Robert Young in person? And just as sweet, too. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you chatted with him sometime about your bypass.” Margaret smiles at me. “Would you, Doc?”
I smile back, shaking my head. Once a doctor, never a retired doctor. Nowhere is this truer than in a community like ours, where the “active adult” residents periodically drop out of commission, sometimes for good, due to any combination of ailments. Also true is the two-to-one ratio by which the ladies routinely outlast their counterparts, which makes single gents at Whispering Palms even more popular than in their heydays.
“Three months already since they fixed him up,” Margaret chirps. “And he’s doing better every day. Lots of TLC, my Buster needs.” There is tenderness in Margaret’s little-girl voice as she snuggles closer to the stocky man. For a moment, they remind me of sweet young loves in high school. Here, away from teenage grandchildren and the need to project an exemplary air of propriety, the elderly couples are free to act as young as their hearts feel.
“Been out of town again, Doc?” She tilts her head coquettishly in my direction.
“Until today,” I say. “I went backpacking in the Sierra. Beautiful up there this time of year. It was like going home for me.”
It was a trip home. After taking leave of my doctor last week, I rushed back to my house with one intention: to gather my camping gear, get the hell out of there, and escape to the mountains—my secluded mountains. That was also what Dr. Graham recommended as we shook hands on my way out of his office.
“You should take some time and get away, think about what I proposed. Surgery can take care of most of the mass in your left lung. Then we’ll follow up with radiation. Maybe a little chemo to wrap up.”
He caught me off guard when he placed his free hand on my shoulder. “You recognize, of course, that we won’t know for certain until we operate. But it looks promising. Keep me apprised of your decision. Good day, Dr. Connors.”
For a full week I climbed rocks, hiked in the sun, pitched my tent, and cooked freeze-dried meals. When tired, I stopped by a stream to read or daydream. But I made my choice that first night in the mountains while I rested my sore back and stared out the screened roof of my tent at the shimmering skies above. Staring back were my wife’s eyes from years ago, hollow from exhaustion yet still questioning, as she’d slowly but steadily lost ground in her battle with breast cancer. Had it all been worthwhile, the disfiguring surgery followed by rounds of chemotherapy that had left her retching her guts out, sobbing from depression? Not once had she complained, but toward the end it was all too clear she’d been hanging on solely for my sake. In the gray daybreak that highlighted the jagged peaks looming all around, I sat up in my one-man tent and realized, clear-eyed and with a surprising sense of detachment, that I didn’t have a single person in this wide world to hang tough for.
Margaret’s voice rises over the rumbling hot bath as she playfully wags her finger at me, “Dottie tried to call you, but your answering machine wasn’t on, mister.” Bless her heart. No one keeps abreast of the goings-on the way Margaret does, even now with her busy social calendar.
“I must’ve forgotten to set it. Was it something urgent, did she say?”
I sometimes wonder if I am doing a disservice to the single ladies at Whispering Palms, including Dottie, my neighbor on the other side, by responding to their frequent pleas for assistance. Their lonely struggles with the aggravations of daily existence must be disconcerting, I reckon, from a stopped-up sink to a dead car
battery or a stuck closet door. Far worse, however, are the times they’re startled awake at night, alone in bed, dead convinced that some prowlers are scratching at their back doors or that their own thumping hearts are under imminent attack. But loneliness is a devious intruder with multiple disguises they’d do best to confront on their own. Often, though, their phone calls for help are mere pretenses to invite me over for coffee and homemade pie on their patios overlooking the communal green, yet they still send me home later with a steamy casserole as a token of their appreciation for my “trouble.” Margaret was as guilty as the rest until she began dating her new boyfriend recently.
“Someone’s been wanting to get hold of you, Doc. All week long.” There’s an inquisitive note in Margaret’s voice she does not bother to conceal. “A man.”
Her excitement is understandable, given that my wife and I led a quiet life, which has grown even quieter for me after she passed. I no longer claim any living relations, at least none who stays in touch, and the few couples we knew have drifted away since her death.
“He left word for you, with Dottie,” Margaret says. Then, with a discreet glance in Al’s direction, she whispers, “Is everything okay, Doc?”
“Must be the IRS catching up with me.” I wink at my well-meaning neighbor and wade toward the steps. “If you’ll excuse me now, lady and gentlemen. Time to get back into the swing of things.”
A man? Someone from Doctor Graham’s office?
Dottie looks pleased when she opens her door and finds me standing in the shade of her covered patio. “My, my. To what do I owe this nice surprise?”
She points me to a wicker chair on the patio before disappearing inside to bring us back some iced tea. Health-conscious thin, fastidiously coiffed and made up, she moves with the brisk efficiency of a former doctor’s office nurse. We exchange pleasantries, then I bring up the main reason for my visit.
“I saw Margaret earlier. She mentioned I missed some mysterious visitor?”