Don't Mean Nuthin'

by Ron Lealos

  Stopped by an overturned fruit cart, we sat on Le Loi for ten minutes while the mess was cleared, mostly by young boys who stuffed their pockets with bananas and mangoes. On the sidewalk, a woman stood next to the cyclo. An umbrella shaded her from the morning sun. She wore a long, white coat that fell below her knees, slit up the side and showing her black pants. One of the legacies of the French period in ’Nam was the mix of French-Vietnamese blood that produced absolutely stunning women. She could have walked down the runway of any designer’s show in Paris. Almost as beautiful as Liem, but black eyes. And alive. I waved to her, but she modestly turned her head down and stared at her flip-flops.

  The smell of fruit and fish got stronger as we neared the Ben Thanh Market. Cyclos and taxis jostled each other in the make-believe queue on Le Loi. My driver stopped on the outside lane of traffic that was four layers deep. I gave him a few piasters. He tipped his straw hat and grinned in a toothless smile, turning immediately to battle the others for what might be the only fare for the rest of the day.

  Few white faces were among the thousands shopping, and they were wearing military fatigues. Tough to make Saigon a tourist destination in 1970. The accelerating street-bombing campaign of the VC kept most visitors close to their hotels.

  It was just before 0900, and I knew Luong was already here. All I would have to do is stroll through the stalls and he would make contact. He must have felt like he was covered in pineapple juice and lying on a nest of fire ants. Surrounded by this many Vietnamese, every nerve end in his body would be screaming to kill. Saigon was another world, inhabited by a million of his enemies, and he would stand out like a grunt with all his limbs in the amputee ward at the 36th Evac Hospital outside Saigon. He couldn’t wear his traditional Montagnard clothing of baggy pants tied with colored cloth, blouse, and headband.

  Two MPs walked down the crowded aisle toward me. At a jewelry stall, I was holding up a Rolex watch that cost the equivalent of a Hershey’s with almonds. Dressed in civilian clothes, I wore khaki pants and a white, short-sleeved shirt.

  “Sir,” the one on the left said. “This area is not secure. Please be careful.” He had three stripes on his shoulder. He was black and would have been in the heavyweight division in the battalion boxing team. The other MP was white and over six-foot-five.

  I took off my sunglasses and turned to the MPs.

  “Roger that, Sergeant,” I said.

  Both MPs, relatively relaxed for being in a city under siege, came to attention. Not the parade ground kind. The kind where you are leisurely swimming in the river and all of a sudden you see two red eyes barely above the surface and moving toward you. The kind that makes the muscles tense. It’s called “survival instinct.” I didn’t think they were afraid, but some inner voice was telling them that death was very near.

  The official response would be to demand my ID and pass. Neither one asked. We examined each other for a few seconds.

  “Thanks again, Sarge,” I said. “I’ll keep my eyes open. You have a good day now.” I turned back to the Rolexes. A minute later, I felt the MPs move away only by the drop in tension in the aisle. It could be a lifetime before the stink of doom and danger was erased from my soul.

  The Vietnamese woman showing the watches didn’t even bother to beg me to come back or start her “first sale of morning” pitch. She had seen the exchange. I walked deeper into the market.

  The further I went, the more I was surrounded by Vietnamese and the staler the air. Smells of cooking fish and rice mixed with spices trumped all the other odors. The noise level increased, especially the women, shrieking, “Mua re.” Buy cheap. Someone touched my arm. It was Luong, dressed in the Saigon uniform of the day, black pants and white, long-sleeved shirt rolled up on his forearms. But there was no way to mistake him for a flatland Vietnamese.

  A member of a proud and ancient culture, the man beside me was stoop shouldered and meek. I had never seen Luong this way, but he must have chosen subservience as part of his disguise. Of course, if he strode through this market, head high, challenging anyone who approached, in seconds, he would be another piece of meat decomposing on the ground. If I had to guess, probably half the men here spent the nights fighting as VC. Luong obviously did not belong.

  I bumped into him, dropping the newspaper I carried on the ground. We both knelt to pick up the paper.

  “Twenty-two hundred hours,” I whispered. “By the American embassy. Twenty-four Tu Do. Palm trees in the back. Bring your gear.” Luong barely nodded, and we stood, immediately pushing through the crowd in different directions.

  On the ride back to the Majestic, I wondered which of the many eyes that followed me through the market were there at Comer’s orders. I would be foolish to think I wasn’t under surveillance. This op stank as much as the day-old corpses I came across after a firefight in the bush. I would play this one like there were two enemies, Comer and Ky.

  A year ago, I landed in this country already filled with doubts, but answering some vague call to duty bludgeoned into me by the Colonel. Now, I didn’t care about him. Nor did I have any misgivings about what killing sleeping Vietnamese did to advance the cause of America. It was useless. It was murder. We were losing this war as surely as the day would be hot and humid. Another suspected collaborator dead at my hand wouldn’t do a single thing to win this police action except add to the misery that was at every glance. Ky would be my last. He deserved to die.

  As we turned off Le Loi onto Dai Lo Nguyen, two old peasants in from the rice paddies were begging on the corner. I told the cyclo driver, “Dung.” Stop. Each man was missing an arm. Crutches sat on the curb beside them. They were filthy, and brown rags covered the stumps. Gook sores oozed yellow fluid down their uncovered legs. One man’s right eye was bulging, the lid closed. The other’s left eye was milky with cataracts, and he tried to smile as I approached, his palm up. I gave them each a few piasters and escaped before the street kids could swallow me.

  The response of the US military in ’Nam after an attack on American forces coming from any of the thousands of vils was to burn the vil to the ground. Often, whatever civilians remained when the troops came back became “casualties of hostile action.” The survivors were moved out, and a new vil was built, usually including barbwire. The villagers were allowed to go home to new hootches they didn’t want, guarded by ARVN soldiers who hated and tortured them. I had seen this response dozens of times and never understood why we would burn the village to the ground and then rebuild it. But, most of all, I remembered the old men who were beaten and interrogated. These two villagers were probably examples. They were too old to fight for either side. Any young men in the village would have to immediately escape to the VC or the Americans would assume they were already Cong, a death sentence. We were responsible for recruiting thousands of young men who didn’t want to fight but had no choice. And thousands more old men who died or drifted to the cities to beg.

  At the Majestic, I ate lunch and waited for darkness, cleaning and oiling the weapons in my room. Black greasepaint was added to the arsenal, and my Gerber was on my belt. At 2130, I put the weapons in my duffel bag and went out the back door.

  In the bushes behind 24 Tu Do, I waited for Luong. Again, I knew he was already somewhere close by, watching. The Hush Puppy silently shot out the only streetlight on the block. Luong would slide next to me when it was all clear. It had been days since I composed a letter to Mom and the Colonel, and I hadn’t told them about what happened to Colleen or Tran.

  Dear Mother and Colonel,

  Since I wrote you last, I think I fell in love, even without your guidance. And I didn’t have to pay for it. Not in money anyway. You’ll also be glad to hear that we nearly adopted a baby boy, Tran. Colleen and I spent an idyllic few days together, exploring the beautiful cratered countryside. Something was starting in a place inside my heart that I never felt before. When I looked at her, there was this prickly sensation like I had napalm inside my skin. When we made love on the altar
of an abandoned temple, I thought I would come forever and the darkness was filled with my own personal nighttime artillery barrage. Oops. Sorry, much too graphic for Catholics or whatever religion outside the army you’re following now. I found Tran in a vil that was under attack by a squad of VC. His adoptive father died while sheltering Tran from the AK bullets, curled in a ball with Tran the core. Colleen and I decided it would be better to place Tran in a home in ’Nam, so she went before me to meet the new parents in Pham Bien, a quaint little vil that is now ashes. So is Tran. Well, not quite. He was only burned bad enough to leave this layer of crusty potato chip black on his skin. His hair was burned off, and he looked like a baby barbecued monk. I buried him next to a tree with no crucifix to mark the grave. Do you think Father Mulcahey will say he gets into heaven? Colleen was kidnapped. No ransom. They greased her with their AKs when Luong and I came to the rescue. So, would you expect anything else? I couldn’t rescue an infected toenail. This could be my last letter. Tonight, I’m staked out by the house of the son of the vice president of Vietnam. I’m going to kill him. Colonel, you’ll be glad to hear I’m following orders. But I think command wants me dead just as bad as Ky. You see, I’ve gotten this reputation as a rogue. Damned if I know why. Could be that there haven’t been only gooks who died from my Hush Puppy, M16, or KA-BAR. I have a suspicion that there might be a surprise waiting for me on Tu Do Street. Well, hell, it’s been fun here in paradise. Don’t mean nuthin’.

  Through the second-floor windows, I saw a man patrolling the rooms. He stopped, lit a cigarette, and moved on. He carried an M16. Things looked pretty much the same, and no tightened security was obvious. Luong touched my arm. I should have jumped at this phantom, but I was expecting him to appear like a ghost in the mist. It was now well after 2200, and I signaled Luong to move behind another palm tree and wait.

  By 0400, most of the lights were out in the mansion. Little traffic of any kind had passed on the street in hours, but I could still hear occasional riffs from a bass guitar coming out of one of the bars on Tu Do. The guard made his rounds, stopping every few circuits to peer from a window. There were no stars visible over Vietnam to guide the way. I motioned to Luong, and we crossed the street.

  The wall didn’t provide much protection for Ky. Certainly, more lookouts would be patrolling the grounds. Luong used my cupped hand to steady himself while he cut the razor wire. We both carried knives, a garrote, Hush Puppies, smoke grenades, and pistols taped to our fatigues so they were silent when we moved. Our faces were blackened with greasepaint, and our clothes were dark. As usual, all the tags were off our outfits and the serial numbers filed from our weapons. We were sterile, and only my face would identify me as a probable American. I didn’t need to wear the penicillin bracelet, since I wasn’t allergic. Luong disappeared over the wall, and I followed, using the top edge of the wall to pull myself up.

  On the ground, Luong crouched beside me, staring at the glow of a cigarette near the corner of the mansion. I motioned him to go that way while I covered the other direction. A dry fountain was between the house and me. I duck-walked to a point behind the marble and stayed down. Within seconds, Luong was back, and only the smell of the cigarette remained. There had to be more guards, and the dead man’s buddy would be around soon.

  Every mission was a close call. Luck played a role. It only took someone having a sleepless night to mean Luong and I would have to shoot our way out if we wanted to live to kill again. Once, I had stood in a target’s hootch for minutes, listening to the rhythmic breathing of the man and his wife. When I moved toward the sleeping mats, something brushed my forehead, and I jumped back. The man must have known he was on the list. He had tethered scorpions from the bamboo ceiling. It wasn’t the bite that was the threat. That would be painful, but I would make it. They were hissing scorpions, dangling as sentries. The scorpion made the sound of fresh Coca-Cola being poured into a glass, and the papa-san and mama-san sat up. No choice. I couldn’t risk the mama-san’s screams. Two phuupps from the Hush Puppy, and they were dead.

  A cooling breeze rustled the palms that bordered the house. Lilac petals fell from the bushes, giving the impression of a night snowstorm with gigantic flakes. A rainsquall passing through just after midnight made the grass smell fresh and masked the usual scent of Saigon. A car drove by on Tu Do, sounding as if its muffler had been shot with an M16.

  I wanted to sanitize the rear of the mansion before moving to the front. Tonight, we would have to use more force than normal. It was too risky to rely on stealth alone.

  A man came around the left corner of the house carrying a rifle. When he was close, he stopped and whispered, “O dau anh?” Where are you? He looked toward the far corner of the mansion and took a slow step in that direction, M16 now at his shoulder. In two quick strides, I was behind him and the Gerber sliced through his neck like it was made of chocolate ice cream. I pulled him into my chest and eased his body to the grass. Luong helped me move him into the bushes.

  At the front corner of the house, the Mercedes that delivered Ky to the Sporting Bar was parked on the gravel turnaround. A jeep marked MP drove by, the two riders out to enforce the midnight curfew. I nodded at Luong to neutralize the man standing at the wrought-iron gate. He knew by my signal that I would take out the guard on the entrance steps at the same time. I hesitated for a second, listening, knowing that something didn’t feel right, but there was nothing obvious. I touched Luong on the elbow, and he moved toward the gate, using the shadow of bushes for cover.

  Sliding along the wall of the mansion, I couldn’t see the guard, but I could see Luong’s profile. By the time I reached the steps, the man at the gate was being pulled behind a lilac bush. I cleared my throat, knowing the sound would bring the front door guard to me. The guard whispered “Cao?” Fox. It was a common name. “Cao?” he said again, and I heard him start down the steps. The barrel of his rifle poked around the corner. I was crouched low on the grass and drove my Gerber up into his stomach, moving the blade toward his heart. Ribs broke with a muffled crock. I grabbed his rifle before it hit the concrete stairs, letting his body fall over my shoulder. After he finished his death dance, I carried him across the narrow patch of grass and laid him in the bushes.

  The front door was unlocked. Inside, a long hallway led to a stairway at the back. Muted wall lamps lined the hall, and all the doors were closed. A Manchurian weave runner covered the hardwood floor all the way to the end. Paintings hung on both sides above narrow tables topped with flower vases decorated with Chinese art and characters. Someone had been smoking a cigar in the last few hours, and the smell couldn’t override the burning kerosene. Luong gently closed the door and stood behind me. Not a sound in the house, but there had to be more guards than just the one patrolling upstairs. I pointed to the doors on the left, and Luong started down that side. I took the right.

  All of the rooms were dark and empty. Luong and I arrived at the bottom of the stairs at the same time. No sign yet of the man on the second floor.

  Stairs. I hated them. Old houses in the tropics suffered from the heat and humidity, warping the wood faster than in colder climates. No matter how slow and careful, I still had to shift my weight. At any time, the boards might creak, and I was dead. The climb required as much focus as walking through a minefield, especially with a guard due to appear at any moment. Give me a one-story clay floor hootch any night.

  First, I pointed toward Luong and the door, then at my chest, and, finally, up the stairs, indicating to Luong to stay here and watch the front while I went hunting on the second level. I tried to stay to the wall side of the stairs rather than the middle. It took minutes to get to the top, and my right hand was slick from sweat caused by holding the Hush Puppy in front of me. I would have been easy to spot in the dim light on the stairway, and the guard wouldn’t give me a chance to explain.

  This hallway was carpeted too and lit only by more wall lamps turned low. Doors were both to my right and left. No noise, but the smell of
Old Spice and kerosene lingered in the air. I crouched behind a three-foot-high lacquered vase and waited for the guard to make his rounds. He must be on break. We had been in the house nearly five minutes.

  A door opened to my right and a man carrying a Remington pump action shotgun came into the hall. He wore black pants and a white shirt, the Saigon uniform, but he had on brogues instead of sandals. I waited for him to get near, stood, and circled the garrote around his neck from behind, giving just enough pressure for him to know that any struggle would leave him wearing a red bow tie. “Khac dan ong?” I said, my lips touching his ear. Other men? With one hand, I took the shotgun and rested it against my leg. He didn’t say anything, nor did he try to fight. I pulled the garrote tighter, and blood warmed my fingers. “Khac dan ong?” I asked again. He pointed to the door on the right at the end of the hall. “O dau Ky?” I asked. Where is Ky? He tried to turn around. I loosened the garrote enough for him to point behind us toward the door on the left at the other end. Bringing my free hand up, I twisted hard and heard the wire squish through the flesh on his neck. Blood shot from his throat, and I let him collapse to the rug next to the shotgun.

  At the top of the stairs, I motioned Luong to come up. I didn’t need to tell him to be quiet. When he was beside me, I put my mouth by the side of his head and whispered, “Guards in that room.” I indicated the room on the right and turned back. “Ky is there,” pointing to the room at the opposite end. “We have to grease the guards first. Then Ky.” Luong nodded and followed me.

  The only worry was that the frame had warped and there would be a squeak when I pushed the door open. Both Luong and I had our Hush Puppies out and Gerbers in easy reach. No sound and we were inside. Faint light came through the open window. Four cots lined the walls, and a man slept in each one. I stepped to the right, and Luong immediately went left. The room smelled of fish balls and bad breath with just a hint of Brut. A fan in the far corner pushed the stale air around the room. Clothes were piled next to each cot, and more shotguns leaned against the wall. Empty Lucky beer bottles and teacups sat on an end table between the cots. The remains of a rice dinner formed a greasy design on a page of newspaper. I reached the first man, put the Hush Puppy to his head and fired. At the same moment, I heard the familiar pphhuupp of Luong’s silenced pistol. I swiveled to the next man and shot him the face, hearing Luong do the same on his side of the room. Not even a moan.