The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  “We hope that one day they will be adopted by a family in Europe. Or perhaps even America,” she explained. “We teach them English, and we teach them as much as we can about other countries. Their future is not here, in Vietnam.”

  The nun was Irish, and Lehman would have bet money that hidden under the white cowl was a head of the reddest hair that would have perfectly complemented her pale green eyes. The rest of the nuns who ran the orphanage were all Vietnamese and spoke English poorly, she had explained, so she had been sent over from Ireland to help teach the children.

  The group was standing in a cobbled courtyard which had been worn smooth by countless generations of feet. Lehman heard a door slam and then the courtyard was filled with the chatter of excited children. On each of the floors was a corridor which ran around all four sides of the courtyard, off which were doors to the various rooms, and in the corners where the corridors met were steps to the floors above and below, also open to the elements. The children, as many as twenty boys and girls, filed down the stone steps and into the canteen where Sister Marie had shown the vets the wooden tables and benches where they took all their meals. On the top floor were the dormitories where the children slept and on the two other floors were the rooms where they took their lessons. The nun had taken them round the poorly equipped kitchens and the canteen and the pantry with its meagre supplies of rice and dried fish, all of them on the ground floor, and as the children continued to pour into the canteen she led the Americans across the courtyard and through another, smaller, archway to a neat kitchen garden where the nuns grew their own fruit and vegetables.

  “How many kids do you have here?” asked Speed.

  “Just over one hundred,” said Sister Marie.

  “Are they all Amerasians?” asked Janet Cummings.

  “If by Amerasians you mean children of American soldiers, then the answer is no,” said Sister Marie. “The last Americans left in 1975, so the children of the war are now at least twenty years old. There were about 25,000, of whom more than half have already gone to the US under the Amerasian Homecoming Act. In effect, America has been bribing the Vietnamese to let them go. It costs the US 137 dollars each time an Amerasian is allowed to leave. They go first to the Philippines for six months to learn English and a trade, and then they go to America, along with their mothers and any other close family. Most of the Amerasians had already left by the time I arrived here five years ago. There were many thousands, most of them dependent on charity or living on the streets of Saigon. They were treated so very badly, those children. They were half white or half black and the Vietnamese do not take kindly to the children of mixed marriages. They called them bui doi, the dust of life. They were denied even the most basic education and health care, they were beaten, many were even locked away in the re-education camps. In the early eighties America agreed to resettle the Amerasians in the United States under the Orderly Departure Programme and now most of those who wished to go have gone.”

  “Which is as it should be,” said Judy.

  “So who are these children?” asked Janet Cummings.

  “They are the children of the original Amerasians,” said Sister Marie. “Many of them were abandoned in the same way that their mothers and fathers were abandoned. Those children who could be taken for Vietnamese were accepted into society, but those with non-Asian features were simply left on the streets. Many were left on the doorstep of this orphanage.”

  “But can’t they go to America too?” asked Henderson, lowering his camera.

  “If their parents acknowledge them, then of course. But many were abandoned before the programme was announced, and many of the mothers are already in the United States. Matching up the orphans with their mothers is next to impossible. They already have new lives in the States. Many of the Amerasian girls were working as prostitutes and the children would be reminders of the lives they left behind.”

  A small boy with dark skin and curly black hair came bowling into the vegetable garden, arms flailing and legs skidding on the soil. His eyes searched the group of Americans as if he were looking for someone and when he saw Lewis he grinned and rushed over and grabbed his leg.

  Lewis bent down and scooped him up in his arms and held him so that their heads were on one level. The boy put his arms around Lewis’s neck and hugged him.

  “That’s Samuel,” said Sister Marie. “He’s never seen anyone like his father. Black, I mean.”

  That explained his rush to the garden, thought Lehman. Some of the other children must have told Samuel that there was a black visitor. The kid’s delight at seeing an adult with skin almost like his own was heartbreaking.

  “Other children here are the unwanted children of Vietnamese prostitutes and their customers. Some American, some European, and a lot of Russians. The more tourists who come, the more illegitimate children there will be and the more they will be left in our care. We have been trying to educate the prostitutes about using contraceptives, but it is not easy. They are expensive, and not readily available.”

  A young Eurasian girl called Sister Marie’s name and ran over to speak to her in Vietnamese. The nun answered, also in Vietnamese, and then she told the group that the tour of the orphanage had come to an end. Another nun, Sister Agnes, would show them around the hospital part of the building. She pointed to the stairs at the far side of the courtyard and told the Americans that Sister Agnes would meet them on the second floor. The Americans thanked the nun and then followed Judy across the courtyard, leaving the children behind.

  Lehman and Lewis lingered until last and Lewis handed the nun a fifty dollar bill. “I know it’s not much, Sister Marie, but please take this,” he said.

  He was rewarded with a wide smile and her green eyes sparkled.

  “Why, thank you,” she said, surprised by his generosity. “Money is always a problem here. The government has little time for those who are not pure Vietnamese. I did not wish to say more while your guide was listening. You know of course that she is a cadre from North Vietnam? She wields a great deal of power in the South. Many are afraid of her.”

  “Yeah, we guessed as much,” said Lehman.

  “So the government doesn’t help you at all?” asked Lewis.

  Sister Marie smiled sadly. “You know, shortly before I came here, the Vietnamese were actually bribing Amerasians to say that they were related to them.”

  “Say what?” said Lewis.

  “Unbelievable, isn’t it? For years they treated the Amerasians as if they didn’t exist. Treated them worse than animals. Mothers of Amerasian children used to dye their hair black with boot polish, cut off their eyelashes, and rub soot into their white skin. Then the Americans announced that they would allow all Amerasians into the United States and that they could take their Vietnamese families with them. Suddenly the Amerasians found themselves wanted by everyone. Rich Vietnamese would pay thousands of dollars to Amerasians – to adopt them, in effect – so that they could also go to America. That’s what happened to many of the orphans who were brought up here. Most were in their late teens or early twenties. Some were strong enough to resist the temptation, but many took the money.” She shook her head sadly. “As soon as they got to the States they were abandoned once more by their new-found families. I have letters from some of them. You have no idea how hurt they are. How unloved, even now.”

  “But don’t they go to stay with their fathers in the States?” asked Lehman.

  “Rarely,” said the nun. “Almost all were disowned by the fathers. There have been some cases where former soldiers have come back to search for their former Vietnamese girlfriends and wives, and taken them and their children back to the States. But for every one who wants to find his past there are a thousand who want to forget. It was a long time ago.”

  “If I knew I had a child in Vietnam, I’d move heaven and earth to find it.”

  “When did you leave Vietnam?” Sister Marie asked Lewis.

  “Nineteen seventy,” answered Lewis.


  “And what makes you think you didn’t leave a child behind?” she said. “Did you tell all the girls you knew that you were leaving? Did you say goodbye to the girls you met in the bars while you were on R&R?”

  “No. No, I didn’t,” said Lewis thoughtfully.

  “Then you don’t know,” said the nun.

  Lewis looked at Lehman and both felt uneasy under the nun’s scrutiny. She was absolutely right, of course, Lehman realised. Any of them could have children they didn’t know about. And, as Lewis had said earlier, any of the vets could be the grandparents of the children now playing in the orphanage.

  “Sobering thought, isn’t it?” asked Sister Marie. She looked at them sternly, and then in a swish of material she was gone, floating across the courtyard with three small children in tow, like a mother swan being followed by her cygnets.

  “Wow,” said Lewis.

  “Yeah,” agreed Lehman. “She’s a tough cookie, all right.”

  “For a nun.”

  “Yeah. For a nun.”

  They rejoined the rest of the group who were being addressed by a small Vietnamese nun in halting English in the corridor on the second floor. She told them that the hospital was for children only, but that they were not necessarily orphans. She led them into the first ward, which was little more than a large room with eight beds up against the walls and a lacklustre fan grating rustily overhead. Paint was peeling off the damp walls.

  The beds were occupied by children with broken bones, several were in traction, but all were smiling and curious about their visitors. From several came the same questions that they’d been asked so many times before. “You my father? You take me home?” Again and again the Americans said no.

  Sister Agnes gathered the Americans together before speaking to them in a low, measured voice. “The next ward is for children who are dying, and there are men and women there too. They are patients for whom nothing can be done in other hospitals. They come here to die. I tell you this so that you will not be shocked. You are welcome to visit, but please be quiet.”

  “What’s wrong with them?” asked Stebbings.

  Sister Agnes frowned and spoke to Judy in rapid Vietnamese. Judy replied, and listened while the nun spoke again. Judy nodded, and then addressed the group.

  “Agent Orange,” she said. “They are women and children who are dying from Agent Orange. The defoliant. Some have cancer. Some of the children were born sick. All will die.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath from Lewis, followed by a sigh as he allowed the air to escape.

  “Where are they from?” asked Speed.

  This time Judy spoke without waiting for the nun to reply. “Mostly from what used to be the Demilitarised Zone. That is where America used most of the defoliants. But some of those affected have not lived there for many, many years. Some moved south in the seventies, but still they get sick.”

  “Can’t anything be done?” asked Stebbings.

  Judy shook her head. “Those for whom there is a cure are sent abroad for treatment, but for these people there is no hope. It depends on the cancer. Sometimes it is not cancer. Sometimes babies are born defective. Sometimes the defects are small and can be cured by surgery. Sometimes their brains are outside their skulls, or organs are missing. Many die at birth. The abnormalities we see are similar in many ways to those which were seen in Japan after America dropped the atomic bombs there. It will be a long time before the effects of the American poison disappear.”

  Most of the vets stood with their heads bowed, not wanting to meet her gaze and equally unwilling to look at the patients. Most of those lying in the beds were conscious and Lehman wondered how many understood English and whether or not they knew what Judy was saying about them. This was clearly part of the tour and he guessed that Judy had brought many groups to this ward before. There was something heartless about using the patients as an exhibit, something macabre and repulsive. Even Sister Agnes appeared to be embarrassed by the guide’s moralising. One of the near-skeletons coughed and a nun went over and sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand on a forehead and said soothing words in Vietnamese. Lehman couldn’t tell if the figure was a man or a woman.

  There were two men in the ward, both in their late forties, one sleeping fitfully, the other half sitting, his back propped up against a pillow. His face was pinched and drawn, his eyes sunk so deep into his face that they were in deep shadow. His bedsheet had slipped down to his waist and the vets could see his ribs clearly etched through the blotchy, paper-thin skin.

  He smiled at the Americans, and Sister Agnes took Lewis and Henderson over and introduced them.

  “This is Mr Chau,” she said. “Mr Chau fought with the Americans. He speaks good English.”

  Mr Chau’s smile grew wider, showing chipped and yellowed teeth, and he nodded a greeting to the two Americans. He coughed quietly, his chest making small, heaving movements. The coughing grew louder and he bent forward, cupping a hand under his bony chin and then red, frothy liquid trickled from between his lips. Sister Agnes darted forward with a cloth and dabbed at his face while the coughing spasm continued.

  “Cancer of the lung,” she said to Lewis. “Very bad. Mr Chau’s wife already die. Cancer of the liver.”

  “Christ,” said Lewis, under his breath.

  The coughing fit tailed off and the nun used the now bloody cloth to clean Mr Chau’s hands. He smiled again and this time his teeth were red.

  “Welcome to Vietnam,” he said slowly, enunciating each syllable as if he had not spoken English in a long time.

  Lewis and Henderson looked at each other, not knowing what to say to the dying man.

  “Thank you,” Lewis said eventually.

  “Yeah. Thanks,” added Henderson.

  Lewis took out his wallet and placed a twenty dollar note on the man’s bedside cabinet. Mr Chau thanked him, but made no attempt to pick up the money. Lewis knew that there was probably nothing the man could buy. He wanted to ask the nun how long he had to live, but didn’t want to ask in front of the man. And part of him didn’t want to know the answer to the question because it would remind him all too clearly of his own mortality. He remembered the conversation with the doctor back in Baltimore. Christ, it seemed years ago, almost as if it had happened to someone else, but the gnawing ache in his guts hadn’t gone away and he was finding it progressively harder to eat. It wasn’t that it hurt to eat, it was simply that he seemed to have lost his appetite. He looked at the living skeleton in the bed in front of him and wondered how long it would be until his own powerful body looked the same, the muscles wasted away to nothing, the skin hanging off the bones like melted wax. He promised himself for the millionth time that he would not allow himself to get to that stage, that he would take his own life long before he became helpless and bedridden.

  Lewis wanted to give the man some medicine, anything to ease his pain or prolong his life, but he had nothing like that. He patted down his pockets and came up with a foil packet of disposable wipes which he’d taken from the hotel and a tube of sun-blocker. He put them next to the banknote, knowing that the two items were almost as useless as the money but wanting to give the man something none the less.

  The children were the worst to look at. Two were little more than babies and Lehman wouldn’t have given much for their chances even in an intensive care unit in an American hospital. Lying naked on soiled sheets with nothing more than the prayers of the nuns and whatever drugs were at hand, he doubted that they would survive the week. One of the small ones was being cared for by a young girl who Lehman assumed was its mother, wiping its forehead with a damp towel. Another lay silently on its back, its head turned to the side, making almost no movement, only the occasional twitch of its feet showing that it was alive. Lehman stood by the baby’s bed and looked down. Two lines of blue stitches ran along its stomach forming an almost symmetrical cross. Someone had put large cotton mittens on the baby, obviously to stop it plucking at the stitches and injuring itself
.

  Sister Agnes appeared at Lehman’s shoulder. “This girl we call Jessica,” said the nun.

  “Where is her mother?” Lehman asked.

  “Mother must work. She know there is nothing more we can do for baby. She come every day, but now is the time she must work.”

  “What happened?” Lehman asked.

  “Her liver was outside her body when she was born. It grew much bigger than normal because it wasn’t inside. Mother used to live in North Vietnam. Much Agent Orange there.”

  “What are her chances?”

  The nun screwed up her face, not understanding what Lehman had said.

  “Will she live?”

  “The baby?” The nun crossed herself. “Please God, I hope she does. Our doctors did the best they could, and her defect was not as serious as many we see here.”

  “You see worse?”

  “Many are born dead, many die soon after they are born. Many women come from the North to have their babies in Saigon because they know they will get better care here.”

  Lehman looked around the poorly equipped ward and shuddered at the thought of what it must be like in Hanoi.

  “How could they?” said Janet Cummings, under her breath. “How could they do that to a little baby?” The rest of the group came over to the bed. “War shouldn’t be about killing babies.”

  “It isn’t,” said Horvitz quietly, his eyes on the infant. “Sometimes they just get in the way. Innocent bystanders.”

  “I can’t believe that it’s still happening now, all these years later,” said Speed.

  “Believe it,” said Lewis, his voice loaded with bitterness.

  “I think we’ve seen enough,” said Tyler at the back of the group. Speed and Henderson nodded in agreement and they moved out into the corridor. Lehman and Lewis were the last to walk down the stone staircase to the courtyard.