by C. L. Hoang
Dick shook his head slowly, his fists gripping the sheets tight.
“He’d just landed a deal with Newsweek. His first big break.” Those were the first words out of Dick’s mouth.
Mme Yvonne glanced at Dean and me, concern written all over her face. I felt no less confused, but thankfully, Dean came to our rescue.
“Hey, buddy,” he said, leaning over Dick. “How about we find a wheelchair and get you outside to catch some rays. Think you can handle that?” Then, motioning to me, “Can you check with the charge nurse?”
After scrambling to gather what we needed, Dean and I helped Dick out of his bed and into a wheelchair, ever so carefully since he was cringing in pain.
Dean pushed the chair out in the hallway, and Mme Yvonne and I couldn’t be happier to escape from the chill inside the Death Ward. Without talking, we followed a warm, gentle breeze to a bright veranda that overlooked an inner courtyard.
It was splendid out—always summer in Việt-Nam, someone had noted—as we came upon an oasis of flowering shrubs and trees, complete with a babbling fountain in the center where birds frolicked. Hard to imagine it was just a month ago when blood and guts had spilled freely across the street from this idyllic spot, during Charlie’s suicidal assault on the airbase and MACV headquarters.
Dean parked the wheelchair in a shady spot on the veranda, then plopped down on the tiled floor next to it. I followed suit, on the other side of the chair. Mme Yvonne sat down on the edge of a small stool I’d carried out for her, at an angle from Dick so she wouldn’t obstruct his view.
“Sorry, guys,” Dick finally broke the silence. “I’d just gotten off the phone with the bureau and my head was still spinning when you all walked in.” He closed his eyes momentarily, taking a slow, deep breath. “A friend of mine had gone missing for a week. Only this morning did they learn what happened to him.”
He turned to Mme Yvonne with a wistful smile. “It’s always struck me how easy it is to form new friendships here in Việt-Nam. Seems like people understand there’s precious little time to be squandered, so they just cut the crap and try harder to be civil to each other.”
As anxious as we were to find out about Dick’s condition, we sensed that he needed to talk. Discreetly, Dean signaled to Mme Yvonne and me not to interrupt.
Dick went on. “I met this new friend in Khe Sanh, a young freelance photographer by the name of Bob Ellison. Only twenty-three years old, fresh out of college and in country for just a few weeks, but as fearless as they come. Half the time I couldn’t keep up with him, since he loved to accompany the Marines on patrols, risking life and limb in the hunt for that unique angle for his story. The day I was injured and getting med-evac’ed, he hopped on the same plane so he could take his film back to Sài-Gòn and have it developed. My last memory of young Ellison was his sunburned face hovering over mine as he squatted next to my stretcher and whispered jokes in my ear, trying to distract me from the pain while I drifted in and out of consciousness.
“I later learned that Bob did indeed develop his photos and show them to Newsweek. They were impressed enough to purchase the entire portfolio for publication in the upcoming issue. It was a tremendous coup to pull off for a young unknown like him.
“Then without a trace, he up and disappeared. Just gone, nobody knew where.” Dick ran his tongue over his parched lips. Save for a chopper slashing away at the warm air in its descent to the helipad a few buildings over, all was tranquil. No one stirred.
He began anew. “Turned out Bob had tried to sneak back into Khe Sanh on another C-123. Somebody remembered seeing him lugging a case of beer and a box of cigars onto the aircraft. A little surprise for his Marine buddies at the base, he’d said at the time.” Dick’s voice grew weary, almost doleful. “The kid never made it. His plane was shot down on approach to Khe Sanh and crashed into a hillside, killing all forty-nine people aboard. This happened last week, but they only discovered today he’d boarded the plane as a last-minute add-on, which explained why his name never showed on the manifest.”
Exhausted, he fell silent, his gaze fixated on the birds playing in the fountain. Mme Yvonne coughed in her handkerchief. None of us spoke.
“We’re so sorry for your loss, Dick,” I said at last. “But how are you recuperating? What happened to you?”
He scoffed. “Nothing heroic, for sure. But fortunately, no serious damage.”
Massaging his temples with his fingers, he seemed lost in recollection. A minute passed before he resumed his narration in a tired monotone.
“It was clear from the get-go Charlie intended to make Khe Sanh the American Điện-Biên-Phủ. And man, did they bring it to us. You all know I don’t scare easy, but for a while there I wasn’t sure I’d crawl out of that hellhole alive.
“We were completely surrounded by NVA regulars who outnumbered our boys five to one. They just popped up overnight, out of caves and tunnels in nearby mountains. Armed with Soviet and Chi-Com big guns, they rained living hell on us around the clock. One day sticks out in my mind. Over thirteen hundred incomings pounded the base in a span of eight hours, followed by repeated onslaughts on the ground. Remember the old Korean War documentaries that showed wave after wave of Red Chinese lunging forward, as if nothing in hell could stop their advance? This was just like that. But thanks to our flyboys who risked their lives to bring close air support, the Marines managed to withstand the ferocious attack, even to give back some.
“Route 9 was blocked, so we got resupplied exclusively by air, mainly through paradrops since anti-aircraft fire was too intense for the birds to land. Also the dreadful weather restricted airfield access to only the most skilled and brave of pilots. Here in Sài-Gòn it’s clear and dry at this time of year, but up north at Khe Sanh we were severely hampered by the winter monsoon that blew in from the South China Sea. Low clouds and dense fog socked in the entire area for most of the day, rarely lifting above two thousand feet.”
Dick closed his eyes, his breathing heavy and ragged. I was concerned, but he kept going, his gruff voice droning on as if dictating his report.
“To survive, we dug deep into the red mud. Miles and miles of narrow trenches, up to six feet deep, crisscrossed the entire base camp like a giant ant farm. This underground trenchway connected the company command to all the platoons and bunkers on base, and we lived inside it because most structures above ground had been leveled by VC artillery. Who would’ve thought, right? Trench warfare in this day and age . . . as though the Great War had never ended.
“In fact, I about got buried alive in one of them ditches. Bunch of us had just dived into it when a new round of shelling started. A rocket hit and caused it to cave in on us. It killed a couple of US Marines and ARVN soldiers on the spot. Could’ve just as easily delivered me from my troubles. Instead, I escaped with a handful of frags up and down my right side and a pair of broken ribs. The fellows rushed me to Charlie Med where the surgeon removed all the metal from my body, filled the holes with Merthiolate, and closed them up as best he could. I wasn’t handling the pain well, so he doped me up with a morphine injection, a tetanus shot, and IV fluid with Penicillin G for good measure. Next morning, during a lull, they evac’ed me out. That’s a story in itself, for another time—how we made it in one piece.
“Here at 3rd Field, the staff has been very accommodating. I even get the luxury of a private telephone so I can stay in touch with the bureau and do a little work while recuperating. All in all, I’ve been fortunate, deserving or not.”
I waited until he paused, then asked if he wanted to get back in bed and rest. His eyes looked red and bleary, and his hand was twitching slightly.
“Not yet, thanks,” he said. “I’ve got two more weeks in here to rest all I want. Right now, I’d just like to hear how everyone’s been doing this past month.”
Dean and I took turns giving him a quick rundown on what had transpired at Biên-Hoà d
uring Tết, both in town and at the AFB. He waited a moment after we’d finished, then inquired in a tone almost too casual, without turning to Mme Yvonne, “And how are my lady friends holding up?”
Seconds passed before Mme Yvonne muttered, “We’re doing fine, Dick.” Her voice sounded weak, almost frightened, and she fidgeted closer to the edge of the stool. “Don’t you worry about us, mon cher. Just concentrate on getting well.”
“Thanks for coming today. I assume everything’s under control for you and Mr. Bill?” Dick persisted. “What about Lee Anne? Please tell me all her family is safe and sound. And my little princess, Elise, is she managing on her own through all this mess?”
“Oui, oui. We’re all doing as well as can be expected these days, although Elise happens to be out of town at the moment.” I could hear panic rising in Mme Yvonne’s voice, as her breathing became faster. “Please. Do try and get some rest now, darling. We can finish catching up later, when you’re back on your feet again. D’accord?”
She stood, clutched at her shoulder bag, and looked helplessly at Dean and me. “Gentlemen. Shall we get going and let Dick have his ‘poc’ time? I’m sure he’s ready for it by now.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me what’s going on with Vivienne?” Dick interjected quietly, still staring straight ahead.
I felt my back muscles tense as Mme Yvonne dropped back down on the small stool, her handkerchief tightly scrunched in her fist. “Please, let’s don’t do this now, Richard. This is not the time or place . . . It’s not why I came . . .” Her voice broke into muffled sobs.
“What’s the matter, Yvonne?” Dick’s voice rose higher, now quavering with alarm.
Like an idiot, I realized all too late something was deadly wrong. My heart jumped.
“Why are you making me do this?” Mme Yvonne was crying now, her face buried in her hands. “I don’t know how to say it, my friends. I’m afraid I have terrible news . . . Vivienne, she . . . she’s no longer with us.”
Mme Yvonne let slip a heartbreaking wail. “Elle est morte. Our little Vivienne is dead.”
It was a good thing I was already sitting on the ground next to Dick’s wheelchair. My head was suddenly swimming as if from seasickness, and things went dark before my eyes. The only sound I heard was the fury of my own heartbeat and, somewhere in the distance, the gay twitter of birds.
It seemed a long time before I heard Dick’s voice again. It was all breath, strained with bewilderment and pain. “What happened?”
I leaned back on my hands—arms shaking, ready to buckle—and gazed up at the blurry blue sky. Dean had gotten up and moved to stand behind Mme Yvonne, his arm bracing her back.
“Do you remember she lived with her aunt and uncle in Chợ-Lớn, the big Chinatown?” Mme Yvonne said in between sobs. “It’s where some of the fiercest fighting took place during Tết. I don’t have all the details, but it was confirmed she was among the many victims in their neighborhood.” She placed a trembling hand on Dick’s shoulder. “When you’re well again, if you wish, we can pay visit to her aunt and uncle together, you and me. I’m so, so sorry, Dick.”
We remained speechless—for how long, I wasn’t sure.
Then, slowly, Dick turned his face away from us. “We didn’t even say good-bye, last time I saw her. I was being a real jerk, so angry with her, you know.” His voice crumbled to a hoarse whisper. “Didn’t even have the decency to congratulate her on her engagement news.”
I pulled myself together and knelt in front of his wheelchair. “Hey, bud. Listen to me. There’s something I’ve got to tell you about Vivienne. I promised her I would.”
In my narrow field of vision, I caught a glimpse of Mme Yvonne’s face. Her expression was one of utter astonishment and panic. She put up her hand as if trying to stop me, but then gave up and covered her mouth. Her eyes, however, made one last plea with me not to complicate things further. Poor Dean, being out of the loop, shifted his doubtful gaze back and forth between us.
“It was all a big misunderstanding, you see,” I told Dick, wondering myself how I was going to pull this off. “Shortly after you’d gone MIA on us, Vivienne came to see me and explained everything. She asked that when I had a chance to talk to you, would I please relay it to you on her behalf. So you need to hear this, my friend.
“There was no engagement. It was just a fabrication on the spur of the moment, a knee-jerk reaction. You’re the only one she cared about, and that’s the truth she wanted you to know. But you startled her so with your sudden proposal, she grasped at the first delay tactic she could think up on the spot—and what a lousy one it was. But in its crazy way, it worked. It put the issue to rest, though it also hurt you both deeply.”
Dick sat so still I wasn’t sure if anything I’d said even registered.
“It was an enormous decision for her, and she panicked,” I repeated softly. “She told me she’d give anything to take back what she had said, because of all the pain it caused you. But Dick, I got it straight from her—there was never anyone for Vivienne but you.”
Silently, Dick closed his eyes, shutting out the world. From his lips escaped a long, soft sigh. A lament of unspeakable sorrow.
I placed a hand on his knee, and soon I felt Mme Yvonne’s hand, damp with tears, on top of mine.
After we’d put Dick back in bed and taken our leave, the three of us trudged to the front lobby. Outside the main entrance, Mme Yvonne slipped down onto a bench and gave way to her emotions, her shoulders heaving with unrestrained anguish. Dean and I sat on either side of her and waited in silence.
Eventually the storm subsided. She gathered herself, looked up at us with puffy red eyes.
“I did not mean to bring that up today,” she said. “He must have sensed something and just kept pressing until I had no choice. I am really sorry, my friends.”
I patted her hand. “It had to come out at some point. There’s never a good time.”
She gazed down at the ground, her handkerchief balled up in her hand. “Actually, I did not tell the whole truth. Last week, when I still had not heard from Vivienne, I became worried and ventured out to pay her aunt and uncle a visit. That’s when I learned of her death, even how she had died. But I could not bring myself to tell Dick all the details. Not in his current condition.” Sensing how anxious we were to hear the complete account, she turned to me for clarification first. “Is Dean aware of Vivienne’s background?”
“No,” I said, glancing at Dean, who looked understandably lost. “But I’ll fill him in later. I doubt it matters much anymore—all the secrets.”
Mme Yvonne’s hands moved to her chest as if to help steady her nerves. “It’s a tragic story. There’s not a day I don’t cry thinking about it. The district in Chợ-Lớn where she lived with her aunt and uncle was swarmed by the Việt-Cộng right from the start. They seized control of it for two days before the South Vietnamese Army fought back and reclaimed it. During that time, an informant accused Vivienne of collaborating with the Americans, no doubt based on local gossip about her job. So the men in black PJs came and dragged her away in broad daylight along with many other ‘enemies of the people’: government officials of the South, military members on Tết leave, intellectuals, business owners, and so on. You know, the usual ‘villains.’
“We later learned the horrible fate of those poor souls. Worse than that of stray animals. They were hauled in front of a ‘people’s tribunal’ and condemned for political ‘crimes,’ then subjected to public humiliation and torture, and finally executed. For the women, we can guess what disgusting form the humiliation and torture took.” Mme Yvonne paused, swallowing hard.
“Oh, God,” I whispered under my breath, dropping my head in my hands. The naked truth about Vivienne’s identity must have been exposed during this so-called torture. Despite the midday heat, I broke out in a cold sweat.
Probably reading my mind, M
me Yvonne skipped to the inevitable conclusion. And so I learned, dazed and incredulous and heartsick beyond words, that Vivienne’s body had been discovered a couple of days after her abduction, stripped and mutilated, tossed in a back alley with the others like used rags. All the victims were found gagged and bound, coiled up in the fetal position, some blindfolded, many bludgeoned to death with rifle butts. Long after their brutal demises, their faces remained contorted in silent screams of horror.
There were no tears left in Mme Yvonne. Her droning voice drained and muffled, like a distorted echo in some dark, twisted tunnel, growing fainter by the second. Then nothing.
I was all alone, lost in darkness.
I jumped when she touched my arm, her hand tiny and cold, almost icy—much like the numbness inside me. She leaned closer, her eyes full of empathy and concern.
“Are you okay, dear?” she said.
I squeezed her hand in response.
After a while, she turned to Dean. “I wish the two of you had time to come back to my place. It helps to be with friends at times like this. Grief is such a lonely burden.”
Dean tossed me a gauging look. “If we go now, we can get back before the curfew.”
“Please, Roger.” Mme Yvonne sounded hopeful. “Lee Anne wanted to come today, but we thought it might be too crowded for a hospital visit. She’s waiting at my house. She needs to see both of you alive and well. There has been too much sad news lately.”
At the mention of her name, my heart surged with such longing it ached. Flushed with all kinds of emotions, I nodded in silence, and we stood. As we headed back to the terminal, I fumbled in my shirt pocket for the black shades and slipped them on over my eyes.