Highways to a War

by Koch, Christopher J.

  It’s no trouble, Mike said. Let me do it.

  Captain Danh hesitated. Then he said: If you wish. Thank you for telling me: he is a man who does not complain.

  As soon as Doc had given Weary some tablets, we moved off again on the muddy red track through a swampy country. There were thick clumps of palm trees here; the rain had stopped, but the shining green palm fronds dripped like leaky taps. We were all in single file except for Captain Danh and Mike, who walked together at the head of the line. I watched through the gloomy green light as Mike bent to speak in Danh’s ear, gesturing in that way he had, but only with one hand, since the extra pack impeded him. Once, Danh turned and looked at him and laughed.

  I began to find Mike’s powers of endurance awesome. Like Dmitri, I was getting more and more fatigued and weak. I’m generally pretty strong, but I wasn’t used to functioning on starvation rations like these, or to marching for such long periods without rest. I’d begun to develop a blister on my right foot—and this is one of the worst things that can happen on such a march. And I too feared malaria: bouts of it came to me occasionally, as they did to Dmitri. In normal circumstances, with the right drugs available, this would have meant a few days’ inconvenience; but going down with malaria here would mean being left behind at an NVA rest station, since the unit would certainly not stop. And under such conditions, this could mean getting very ill indeed—or even death.

  These were things I tried not to think about. No such fears worried Mike, apparently; his years with the ARVN had made him as tough as these North Vietnamese. And even some of the soldiers had a strained look now, their faces pallid and yellowish. They made jokes all the time about being hungry.

  That evening, we had our first encounter with the Khmer Rouge.

  We had come out of the swampy country, and the red road widened: it was coming on dark, and although there were paddy fields here, there was no sign of life nearby: no lights. Turning a bend, we found a halted North Vietnamese convoy: a row of four military trucks, Soviet-built, solid and old-fashioned, with bicycles tied to their radiators. They were filled with NVA troops in their baggy green cotton uniforms and sun helmets—at least a third of whom were young women.

  The lead truck had its headlights on and its engine running. Near it, like shadows, stood a dozen or more figures in black pajamas. They were slung with AK-47s, and one of them was talking to an NVA officer in a sun helmet. They turned to stare at our unit, examining Mike, Dmitri and me with great curiosity.

  I had not seen Khmer Rouge at close quarters before. They were all very young, except for the man talking to the officer: brown-skinned Khmer peasants, with long wavy hair. All of them wore the red-and-white checked krama: either as a scarf or as a turban. From their looks, I suspected that they came from forest and mountain regions which had very little contact with the outside world; and what was most noticeable about them was a look they had in their faces. How can I explain this look? All of them had it. In the lights of the truck, which put strong shadows on their faces, their eyes seemed to shine with anger at something: something they didn’t understand; something which made them all the more hostile because they didn’t understand it. It was as though something larger than themselves had taken possession of their spirits, filling them with malice. I don’t say this because of what they have done since; I saw it then. More than anything else, they reminded me of a street gang: the sort of street gang you have to fear.

  We halted at the edge of the road, and I noticed that all our soldiers were fingering their rifles. Captain Danh had walked over to the NVA officer and the Khmer Rouge leader, accompanied by Doc and Lenin. He produced a document from a pocket of his uniform, and the Khmer Rouge leader examined it in the headlights, while Captain Danh spoke to him in Khmer, smiling pleasantly. Danh was obviously accustomed to this situation.

  Next to me, Weary suddenly muttered in my ear in Vietnamese, looking all the while at the Khmer Rouge.

  They say they have a right to some of these arms, he said. They say that the Chinese send the arms for them. They are thieves.

  After a prolonged conversation, Danh and Doc and Lenin began to walk back to us, and the NVA officer attached to the convoy called an order.

  A stack of automatic rifles and some Chinese B-40 rocket launchers were unloaded from some of the trucks, and the Khmer Rouge began to gather these up. Then, without looking back, they made off into the darkness among the palm trees and turned into shadows again.

  I was hoping against hope that we would now ride down the Trail in the convoy. But the trucks were pretty obviously full, and we weren’t taken aboard. They began to pull out, the young male and female soldiers staring at us curiously as they went. One or two women smiled, and a group of young men waved to us.

  As they jolted off down the Trail, I watched them go with a growing despair. I should not be giving way like this, I thought; and I resolved to harden myself. But I was worried about the blister, which had now begun to throb.

  There had not been much food available at the last relay station, and that night we had nothing to eat but rice and some dried fish. But we were camped near a village, whose lights we could see through trees, and Prince and Turtle went off to see whether food was to be had there.

  Weary didn’t want to eat. While the rest of us sat around the pot, he lay sweating on his poncho in the full grip of malaria. The first stage of it had also come to Dmitri; he sat shivering in spasms, his face sweating, hugging his knees and looking ahead of him with a fixed stare.

  Captain Danh had ordered Doc to give both Weary and Dmitri some malaria and vitamin tablets. Now he frowned at Volkov across the fire, and then looked at Mike and me. I am concerned that Mr. Dmitri is not fit to walk tomorrow, he said. We must get to the border in the next three days, to make connection with my superiors. I am under orders: I cannot stop. We may have to leave him at a rest station.

  The Count gave him a sickly grin, and spoke with an effort. You can leave our whole three-man team behind, if you like, Captain. We don’t want to be separated.

  I cannot do that without leaving three of my men with you —and I cannot really afford this, Danh said. Also, I would not like you to fall into the hands of Khmer Rouge, which is possible. He paused, looking at us without expression. Some of them are not civilized, he said.

  Prince and Turtle appeared out of the darkness, walking into the light of the low fire. Each of them carried a live chicken by the legs, and the soldiers set up a cheer, talking and laughing excitedly: this was a feast. The chickens flapped their wings and faintly squawked.

  But Captain Danh held up his hand, speaking to Prince and Turtle in Vietnamese. He spoke clearly, and I was able to follow. Where did you get these chickens, he asked. Did you pay the villagers?

  Prince’s handsome face went sullen. No, he said. They are bad people in that village. They would sell us nothing. They say they have not enough. So we took these. All of us are very hungry, and getting weak.

  No. You will take the chickens back, Danh said. His face was stern; his lips tight.

  The soldiers around the fire went quiet; and Prince and Turtle stood holding their chickens, staring at Captain Danh. Turtle’s round face had a comical, puzzled look, like that of a dog refused a walk he has been promised. But it was not amusing; we all wanted the chickens too badly.

  Do what I tell you, Danh said. This is not the way we deal with the people; you know this. We do not come to rob them; we come to free them.

  The two men turned away without a word, and trudged off into the darkness. I waited for some mutter of protest from around the fire; even perhaps for anger. But there was none; only silence.

  It was then that I knew that the North would win the war. Dmitri was in his hammock before Mike and I were, and we stood beside him. His malaria was coming on fast now; he shook violently, and sweat streamed down his face and soaked his shirt. His half-open eyes were pale and blind, staring up at us, and I saw that he was only half conscious.

&nb
sp; Mike wiped Dmitri’s forehead with a handkerchief, bending over him. Ride it out, Count, he said. It’ll pass by morning.

  Dmitri answered in a small voice, and we both bent nearer to hear. Just don’t leave me to those fucking Khmer Rouge, he said. You saw their goddamn faces.

  We won’t leave you, mate, Mike said. You’re too valuable. We might be able to trade you for something at the border.

  We both tried to joke and reassure him, but I don’t think he heard us any more; he was looking straight up into the overcast sky, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  Lying in my hammock, I hoped that the rain wouldn’t come back during the night. I had found that the blister on my foot was turning into an open sore, and it was throbbing badly now. Doc had put Mercurochrome on it; he had no adhesive bandages, and he’d wrapped a cotton bandage around it, but I doubted that this would stay on. He had frowned and clicked his tongue, and he spoke to me in Vietnamese. This could stop you walking, he said. It could spread and turn into jungle fungus—especially if the rain sets in.

  I knew this was true; I had seen what happened to soldiers in the rainy season: to both Vietnamese and American GIs. It was the time of skin fungus; of ulcers that didn’t heal because they were never dry. But I also knew as Dmitri did that I must keep on; and I didn’t speak about it to Mike. In my head, I kept seeing the black shadows of the Khmer Rouge.

  For a time, Mike and I lay in our hammocks without speaking. The Professor sat on guard a few yards away, leaning against a palm, his head on his chest, rifle across his knees. There was a moon showing through a break in the cloud, and we could see Dmitri’s white, streaming face under the mosquito net, his eyes closed. He was delirious, tossing his head and muttering.

  I’m afraid he may not make it tomorrow, I said.

  He’ll make it, Mike said. Even if I have to carry him.

  I saw from his face that he meant this literally. We’ll both carry him, I said. But I’m getting a little worried, Snow.

  So am I, he said.

  This surprised me. He hadn’t admitted it before; it wasn’t like him. He pushed his net aside and lit a cigarette.

  Sometimes I think we may never get back to Phnom Penh, I said.

  I hadn’t meant to say it: if I hadn’t been low from hunger and fear about my foot, I wouldn’t have, and I expected Mike to dismiss it.

  But all he said was: You could be right, mate. But don’t think about it.

  Then I asked him if he ever prayed. I’d never asked such a thing before, but it seemed natural just then, and not embarrassing.

  Now and then, he said. When I’m tired. I’m not quite sure who I’m praying to. But whoever it is, I imagine they’re marching with us. It helps.

  Then I asked him did he ever think about home.

  Sometimes. Mainly I think about the coolness, he said, and I saw a small longing come into his face. Just for a while I’d like to be back in our valley, he said. In the hop fields. It was always cool there.

  I find I’m also thinking a lot about my childhood these last few days, I said. I think about our family home in Peking.

  And I talked of the things I missed about our lost home, which I hadn’t thought of for years. I spoke these things aloud because it gave me a sort of peace. The past is a story, and we cannot get back into it, so our yearning for it is sweet and not too sharp. I wouldn’t let myself think about Lu Ying now, because she belonged to the present, and I found this too painful: I might be years in some camp, and I didn’t know whether she’d wait for me. Now I know she would have.

  I told Mike about our family house, with its high walls and red lacquer gates and its many apartments that accommodated our large family. I told how my brothers and sisters and I would play among the stone lions in the courtyard, under a big magnolia tree. And I recalled especially the moon gate, which always looked to me then like the entrance to some magic country: a country in a story. It always seemed to be summer in this memory, when Peking was hot and dusty, and everything smelled dry like pepper. But the locust and plane trees in the streets would be in leaf: a light, tingling green. I recalled the dim, airy rooms in the old house, with the many ancient things passed down through the family, most of which were left behind when we fled: the painted scrolls and vases; the lacquer beds; the pearl blinds. Old China. And I talked of my mother, who died soon after we came to Hong Kong, who was small and neat and always indulgent of us children, and who would let us come into the big kitchen where she supervised everything. The kitchen was full of the smells of preserves and spices, and I recalled the rows of brown ceramic storage jars: for some reason those jars were good to think of, just now.

  Mike was a good listener. He seemed truly interested, and I began to talk about my father, whom I’d told him of before. I’m glad he read us those old poets, I said. Tu Fu. Po Chü-I. Some of it still stays in my head, even though I was never a scholar.

  That must be good to remember, Mike said. His voice sounded sad, I thought, and it was very low; we were both near sleep.

  There seemed often to be barbarians in those poems, I told him, waiting beyond the Great Wall. This was during the War, and I imagined the barbarians to be like the arrogant Japanese officers we passed on the streets of Peking. I still half remember a poem about the Tartars, and the sound of their horns on the north wind, and moonlight on the Wall. And one about the Herd-boy star.

  I looked across at Mike. He had gone to sleep.

  The next two days were the worst of our march. They would pass in a blur of silver, because of the rain. The rain set in early, just as Doc had feared.

  We were wakened in our hammocks in the morning by thunder and a cloudburst. It was brief, but we were immediately wet through. We struggled about in waving, solid sheets of water: ponchos over our heads, thin cotton uniforms plastered to us. The once-dry earth became a red quagmire; gleaming leaves and branches streamed; little waterfalls ran everywhere.

  There was no breakfast; Captain Danh ordered us to take cold balls of cooked rice in our hands, and eat them as we walked. Our line began its march. For me, from the first hour, it was a march of pain.

  The rain came back again in the afternoon, and this time it didn’t stop. Usually the monsoon downpours in Cambodia come only in the afternoon; but sometimes it will rain for two or three days without a break. This turned out to be one of those times.

  The sore on the sole of my right foot was now an ulcer. Another ulcer had begun above the ankle, and the skin on both feet was beginning to flake off. Every time I put my foot down, pain shot through me. Doc did his best, applying more ointment and bandages; but as I marched through the mud the bandage would come off, and every step meant a knife-thrust of pain. After an hour of marching I felt I could not keep on: I could scarcely put my foot down. I stopped, and Dmitri came up beside me, panting. His bout of malaria had lifted a little this morning, but he was still deathly pale.

  You are a goddamn cripple, he said. Put a hand on my shoulder.

  No, I said, you’re too weak, Count.

  We had to shout, the downpour was so loud. The Count looked at me fiercely, water dripping from the brim of his cotton bush hat. I’m better now, he shouted. Do what I goddamn tell you, Jim, or you will get left behind.

  So I put my right hand on his shoulder as I went along, and took some of the weight off the foot. It was a big relief. Dmitri had always been a difficult man, but I had a great fondness for him, and knew now that this feeling would never be broken. As we stumbled forward, I heard him singing to himself: panting and singing at the same time. It was the Elvis Presley song he’d been so fond of years ago, when we were young in Saigon:Wise men say

  Only fools rush in ...

  After a time, I saw that he was shivering again; he had stopped singing, and was very short of breath. I persuaded him to let me walk alone: I found a strong stick beside the track, and went on with that. He and I were last in the line except for Lenin, who came along at the rear of us: our guard. We walked slower and slow
er, through a landscape like a blurred painting, and Lenin began to shout at us to go faster, his voice becoming threatening.

  Di di mau! Di di mau!

  How weary I grew of that phrase. I had never liked Lenin, and now I began to hate him. Up ahead, Mike had stopped and turned to see what we were doing; he waited for us to come up to him.

  You blokes don’t look too bright, he said. Let me take some of the weight.

  And while Lenin watched with a sort of sneer, he took my pack as well as Dmitri‘s, distributing most of their contents into his own. We protested, but he wouldn’t listen; he even took our tubes of rice. None of these things was very heavy in itself, but together they were, and when you have the pain and debility that Dmitri and I did, to be rid of any weight makes a great difference. Then, finding that Dmitri’s malaria was coming on again, Mike made the Count walk close behind him, holding on to his shirt. He was virtually dragging Dmitri along; and he would do this now hour after hour.

  We slept that night in the huts of a way station, and at least were dry, and ate well: the soldiers there gave us fresh supplies. But the next day the rain went on, and seemed even heavier. I found that the skin on my feet was turning black and mushy, and coming away in lumps; and Mike and Dmitri also found their feet in this condition. There were more ulcers on my legs: one near the groin.

  We stumbled on, chewing our cold rice, and there seemed to be a sort of urgency in the march now; we were being made to move faster, and going longer and longer periods without rest. Captain Danh told us that they’d learned on the field radio that B-52s were expected soon to concentrate on this region, and he wanted to get quickly to the border.

  I was still using my stick; and Mike still carried the contents of my pack and Dmitri’s. Turning to look at Dmitri, who once again held on to Mike’s shirt, I experienced a shock. His malaria was worse: he staggered and wove, his eyes blind, his face a corpse’s. But soon I was beyond worrying about Dmitri. Griping pains went through my guts, and a wave of nausea came over me. I knew immediately why this was: I was getting dysentery.