by C. L. Hoang
I thought of Bob. How he’d be missing out on all the milestones in Ricky’s life. His first baby step, first spoken word, first day in school, first Little League game . . . Fuck. The man had never even had a chance to rock his newborn son and sing him to sleep with “Puff, the Magic Dragon.” It had all been stripped from him when it was still just a fantasy of happiness.
I slumped to the ground on one knee amid the tall grass—face buried in hands, my body crumpled under the strain of emotions. Ignoring the tropical sun beating down on my neck and the palpable heat rising in waves from the red swamp, I said a prayer in my heart for my departed friends and comrades. Then, at long last, I bade good-bye to this mysterious and tortured land whose destiny had been entwined with mine over the past twelve months.
Next morning, at 0600 hours, Paul drove me to the passenger “terminal,” a makeshift structure under a tin roof right off the parking apron by the runway. It was still dark, with streaks of pink and orange barely piercing the eastern skies. The temperature was almost pleasant.
“Hallelujah. You made it, champ.” Paul gave me a hearty slap on the back. “Remember the time the debarkation barracks got hit by a pair of 122s?” Indeed I did. How could I forget the kids bunking there that night, who had just completed their tours and were waiting to fly home the next day? Many of them had been killed or maimed in their sleep, mere hours away from safety and freedom. It was a tragedy of the most perverse nature. I heard relief in Paul’s voice. “I was so nervous Charlie might pull a dirty trick like that on your last night here.”
“Would’ve been my time then, wouldn’t it. Might as well go out with a bang, I’ve always said.” The bravado fell flat, but in truth, there was nothing anyone could have done to prevent such a disaster anyway, and we both knew it.
Paul pulled up in front of the building. I jumped out, grabbed my travel bag.
“If you ever find yourself in my neck of the woods, look me up, will you?” he said, for the umpteenth time. “I’ll even drive a couple of hours to come see you, if necessary.”
I felt bad, having not made a commitment of any sort with him although we’d exchanged contact information earlier. It had nothing to do with him personally. Just a reflection of my own suspicion of what the future might hold. After all, hadn’t Bob and I tempted fate before when we’d jumped the gun and made similar plans for the future? So why risk jinxing it for Paul by repeating the same mistake?
“You betcha,” I mumbled while avoiding his eyes.
Paul scurried around to my side to sneak a peek inside the terminal. The place was already teeming with guys in fresh uniforms, all waiting to board the same flight at 0650 hours.
“I recognize some gunship pilots in there,” he announced excitedly. “You’ll get a proper send-off for sure. Keep your eyes on the windows.”
I smiled. In farewell to their comrades flying home, the Assault Helicopter guys sometimes flew escort for the outbound jetliner along the taxiway, in flights of two on either side of the aircraft. It was good to see Paul so taken with these traditions of military camaraderie rather than being obsessed with death and danger.
I pumped his hand. “You’ll do just fine, I’m sure. Your day will come before you know it. Hang tough, buddy.”
As Paul took off in his jeep, waving back at me in the rear-view mirror, a small convoy of empty buses pulled in. Minutes later, the gate at the terminal’s far end swung open. New arrivals filed into the building and were directed to the idling buses. As the nervous newbies passed through the terminal, all the waiting passengers stood and clapped with loud cheers. Their Freedom Bird had arrived with their replacements, and any moment now they’d be allowed to board and begin that long journey home they’d been dreaming about since day one.
I gazed at these new kids in their brand-new uniforms and recognized my own ghost from a year ago. Jetlagged, lost, scared witless of the hostile unknown, and still brimming with innocence, not yet having stared death in the eye. The one striking difference was their remarkable youth, for most of them appeared fresh out of high school. They had a lot of growing up to do in a hurry, if only for a decent chance at survival. My stomach knotted as I couldn’t help but wonder how many would make it back here in one piece a year from now, and then, if those lucky ones could pick up their old lives where they’d left off.
After the newbies were gone, our boarding began in earnest. We lined up by numbers and filed through the gate onto the tarmac, making a beeline for the Bird with the Golden Tail, a sleek Continental Airlines Boeing 707 that shimmered in early sunlight. Around me, men were all grins. Clambering up the ramp, somebody ahead of me pumped his fist and shouted at full throat, “Fini, Việt-Nam!” to more cheers and whistles.
It took a few minutes for all to settle and buckle up. Then the door closed and the plane rolled away from the apron. It taxied past rows of concrete revetments where the war birds were parked before turning onto the runway. I peered out the windows. No signs of helicopter escort off either wing as Paul had anticipated. The chopper pilots must have gone out on company sorties and not made it back in time to see their comrades off.
After a momentary pause, our pilot poured on the power. An electric silence descended over the passengers as the jetliner accelerated down the bumpy runway. It dipped and bounced a few times, then with a sudden lift swept into the air. Outside the windows, the earth tumbled away in a dizzying flash of colors: the deep-red soil of Biên-Hoà; the luxuriant shades of green in the triple-canopy jungle surrounding the base; the mirror ponds from a checkerboard of rice paddies; and, slithering eastward toward the blue Pacific, the silver snake of the Ðồng-Nai River.
Way down there, beneath the monsoon clouds, somewhere on that cursed land that I had grown strangely attached to, Lee Anne and her parents struggled all on their own.
My mouth was pasty. I felt depleted and hollow inside, almost nauseous.
In that surreal moment thousands of feet above ground, with the morning sun slanting in my eyes, the plain truth hit me square in the chest and sent me spiraling down a pit of despair.
I was going home, but my heart remained behind—with my lost true love.
Just then the cheerful pilot came on the PA to announce that we had reached altitude and were now free to get up and move about as we wished. The cabin erupted in huge cheers and applause. We had officially made it, safe and secure beyond the range of anti-aircraft artillery, once and for all extricated from the claws of war. The boys were coming home. For certain.
And so it was—finally, and truly—good-bye, Việt-Nam.
The end of the road. For better or worse.
I turned to the window for quiet and privacy.
Grown men don’t cry, least of all on a grand occasion like today.
PART III
“All Passion Spent”*
California
July 1968 – September 1999
*John Milton (1608-1674)
Chapter Twenty-One
Coming home was a bittersweet experience.
In a twisted kind of way, it reminded me of a famous Vietnamese legend, the legend of Từ-Thức Lee Anne told me one Sunday afternoon in Mme Yvonne’s garden. According to this ancient folktale, the mandarin Từ-Thức one day resigned his post and went hiking into the mountains. While trekking the wilderness, he stumbled upon Thiên-Thai, the mythical Land of Bliss, and was invited by the gentle folks who lived there to stay for as long as he wished. After an extended visit, however, Từ-Thức grew homesick and took leave of his hosts to make his way down the mountains. A great surprise awaited him back in town: the people and scenery had changed to the point of being unrecognizable, as if he had wandered into a different world. Upon inquiring around, he was astounded to discover he had actually been gone for a very long time. More than a hundred years, in the earthly calendar.
Although I’d be hard pressed to call a war-ravaged Việt-
Nam the Land of Bliss, I nevertheless could relate to that feeling of being ill adjusted, even lost, after my return. Like a wanderer just back from a hundred years in the wilderness.
In my case, the external landscape had remained as immutable as the majestic mountains in whose shadows I had been born. But there was no doubt I had come home a changed man, and right into the boiling atmosphere of a nation in full-blown crisis.
Just as Dean had warned me, we ran smack into a crowd of agitated war protesters when my father drove his 1963 Impala station wagon out the front gate of Travis AFB. Fortunately for us, they were chasing and shouting after a big bus ahead of our car and hardly took notice of us. The bus was transporting a load of freshly repatriated servicemen to the San Francisco Airport, where they’d continue on the final legs of their flights home.
Save for that tense, awkward moment at the gate, which everybody in my family did their best to put behind us, my homecoming brought great excitement and joy to all, in particular, my mother and Debbie. While my parents and older brother spoke over one another during the trip home, Debbie seemed content just to sit next to me in the back seat, quiet and serene, her hand nestled in mine. Between all the questions and answers, I peeked over at her and caught her glancing my way with a smile. It’s so good to have you home again, her sparkling eyes seemed to whisper to me.
Looking back on this confusing period of my life, I couldn’t be more grateful to my mom for noticing straight away how out of sorts I really was. In her subtle, thoughtful way, she made sure I was allowed breathing room from well-meaning friends and neighbors who stopped by to welcome me back. With infinite care and patience, through countless homey details around the house, she worked hard to get things back to normal quickly for me.
As the tourist season reached its peak in late summer, my parents and Jerry had their hands full running our family’s bed-and-breakfast. Yet they wouldn’t hear of my sticking around to lend them an extra hand.
“Take Debbie camping with you,” Jerry urged me one evening during dinner at the kitchen table. “In case you forgot already, it’s springtime up in Tuolumne Meadows. But you better hurry. The wildflower show only lasts a couple more weeks at most.”
“You kids can borrow Mom’s Polaroid camera, if you want,” my dad chimed in. “It really takes great pictures. You saw the ones we sent you.”
My mother waited until they left the table to make her own suggestion. “Why don’t you take my car and drive up to Bishop and spend time with Debbie?” she mentioned casually. “I’m sure she’s made arrangements at the hospital to take time off to be with you. Your home leave will be over before long, and she’s been real sweet to let us have our time with you first.”
I promised Mom to heed her advice just as soon as I made it over to the Hayashis and said hello to them, the least I could do for Dick and his family.
It was a relief when Suzy Hayashi answered the door. She’d always been my favorite in Dick’s family since she was closest in age to us—only two years older, or the same age as Jer—but mainly because she had always seemed congenial and easy-going, despite the ever-looming specter of Manzanar in the family’s history.
Her almond-shaped eyes opened wide when she recognized me. “Roger Connors. What a nice surprise. I heard you were back from Việt-Nam.” She stepped aside and invited me in.
We visited in the dim-lighted living room that looked out on a small inner courtyard. After Suzy inquired about my service time at Biên-Hoà, our conversation turned to Dick.
“My parents always complain he doesn’t write home often enough,” she said.
As a result, Dick’s family had remained largely in the dark as to his activities. In fact, I wasn’t sure if they even knew about his sojourn at 3rd Field, so I avoided the topic altogether.
“He’s not the only guilty party,” I admitted with a smile. “I’ve been accused of such an offense myself. Not to make an excuse for us, but there’s always so much happening over there. It’s pointless to burden you folks at home with all the details and cause you more concern. Rest easy, though. Last time I saw him, back in April, he was doing just fine.”
“We all worry about Dick, but it’s worst for my parents,” Suzy spoke softly, a touch of melancholy in her voice. “You really can’t blame them. He’s their only boy and the baby in the family. You know how he always pushes to get out in front, to prove himself, no matter what danger. So anytime we don’t hear from him for more than two weeks, which is more often than not, my parents get all stressed out.”
Her face, partially hidden behind a cascade of long black hair, angled away from me, toward the sun-dappled courtyard. We fell silent, staring out at a garden of dwarf Japanese pine trees and maples accentuated with miniature bamboos.
And then, it happened.
I was suddenly back in the office at Mme Yvonne’s, looking out the sliding glass door at the small patio beyond. Sitting across the desk, with her back to me, was Vivienne—poor, dear Vivienne, in the throes of agony over her long-guarded secret and her breakup with Dick. Then, in a replay of a scene from recent past, she slowly turned around, and it was Lee Anne, instead, staring back at me with mournful eyes, exactly as I’d seen her the last time. I sat transfixed, my forehead damp with cold sweat.
“Roger. Are you okay?” Suzy’s anxious voice pulled me back from my trance.
I blinked—rattled by what had just come over me.
Wiping my forehead with the back of my hand, I forced a chuckle. “It’s been tough to shake off the jetlag on my return. I nod off at the dining table sometimes. It’s embarrassing.” Then I changed the subject and proceeded to tell her about Sài-Gòn, focusing mostly on Dick’s bachelor studio in the heart of the capital. We chatted a while longer before I got up to leave.
“Don’t be a stranger, now,” I reminded Suzy as we exchanged hugs. “Keep me posted on what’s going on with our guy, will you? We didn’t get to say good-bye before I left.”
Done with all the excuses, I dragged myself to face my moment of truth.
My mother, as usual, was correct. Debbie had requested two weeks’ vacation from the county hospital where she worked, in anticipation of our spending time together. Considerate as always, she never asked about my unexplained silence during my final months at Biên-Hoà, concentrating instead on making me feel welcome home and allowing me time to ease back into “normal life.” For that, I was indebted to her.
A new routine was quickly established between us. I’d drive up to Bishop in the morning and we’d spend a nice, easy day around town, the highlight of which would be a picnic lunch in the city park. Sometimes, on the spur of the moment, we’d grab a backpack and take the scenic drive to Bishop Creek Canyon for a daylong hike amid the magnificent Sierra scenery. Back to her apartment in the evening, Debbie usually insisted on preparing my favorite home-cooked meals, but we also often dined out at a cozy eatery downtown in case we wanted to take in a movie after dinner, before I drove home for the night.
On the surface, it seemed just like the good old days. We talked about everything under the sun, as we always had, except for the one topic that mattered most—our relationship. Though she was much too nice to press the issue, Debbie must have sensed, no doubt with some bafflement, the undercurrent of my discomfort. I tensed up each time we touched, and increasingly avoided looking her in the eye. It pained me to watch her try so hard to bring me back.
As life inched back to “normal,” the distance inside me grew wider.
About ten days before my home leave was to expire, I casually mentioned to Debbie that I was ready to go camping in the Sierra backcountry. We were having our picnic in the park.
“Fantastic,” she exclaimed, excited as a child. “It’s been a long while since we last went together. Maybe we’ll be lucky and catch the wildflowers still in bloom. Is Jer joining us, too?”
I jumped on the opening.
&nb
sp; “I’m going alone this time, Debbie.” It wasn’t so much the words as the tone in which they tumbled out. Even to my ear they sounded harsh, impersonal. Like a cold shoulder.
She looked at me in silence, but her brown eyes couldn’t disguise the surprise and the hurt. Yet she voiced no protest or questions. Our pleasant luncheon came to an abrupt end.
“I just need some time to myself,” I explained, no less clumsily, though in a softer tone.
She turned away, let her gaze escape to the lovely gazebo in the middle of the lake. And then I knew I couldn’t just stop there. This was the dreadful moment I’d been bracing for, the moment of reckoning when at last I must come clean and own up to the truth.
If I was ever to go through with it, for both our sakes, it had to be now.
I cleared my throat, dry as dirt. “Deb . . . there’s something I must tell you.”
She slowly turned back to me, and we held each other’s gaze for a long minute. As her eyes welled up, it suddenly dawned on me that she already knew. That she had known for some time now. I’d forgotten how acute her instincts had always been, how very perceptive she was. With the possible exception of my mother, nobody could read me better than Debbie.
In the end, as always with her, Debbie made it easier for me.
“You . . . haven’t been the same since you got back.” Her voice, barely above a sigh, was nearly drowned out by the birds’ chirping. I almost missed her next question, so softly was it uttered, as if addressed to herself. “Did you meet someone over there?”
I’d often imagined there would be so much I’d want to say to her in this excruciating moment, to try to explain, to apologize. As though a torrent of words might help wash away some of the pain. But my taxed brain deserted me, and not a single word escaped from my lips.
All I could do was stare at her. Breathless. Then I nodded.