The March of the Dragons

by Andrew McAuley

  'Give him the knife!' Phượng gasped.

  Vân looked from Phượng to the soldier. With a trembling grip on the knife she slowly placed it in his palm. The moment the soldier's fingers closed around the handle he about-turned and marched back toward the bike. Pausing only to drop both knives through the grill of a drain. He climbed onto the back of the bike and pulled the rifle strap over his shoulder. The driver lowered his goggles over his eyes. Smiling again, he made a hurried salute.

  'Have nice day!' he said in English.

  Phượng watched the bike disappear down the road. She looked up when Vân's shadow fell over her.

  Vân offered her discarded right sandal. 'We better get back inside,' she muttered, 'that felt like a close call.'

  Taking the shoe, Phượng tucked the hair on her left side behind her ear with quivering fingers. 'You have no idea how close.'

  Tuấn

  11th March, 15:30

  'Ah, you come down from your room at last,’ Gran said, ‘did you hear the loudspeakers outside?’

  ‘It’s hard not to,’ Tuấn muttered. He flopped onto the sofa.

  ‘They’re saying they'll put the TV back on tomorrow,' Gran grinned; barely able to contain her excitement. The occupation had been a domestic hardship for her. No friends or relatives had visited. Nobody but the two of them to cook for, and no soap operas to watch.

  Radio free Hanoi had become a central focus of Tuấn's days. It didn't always broadcast on the same frequency and was at times hard to find. He preferred to listen on low volume in his room. He'd rather Gran remained insulated from the dire reality. In her mind everyone would come home once they realised what a big fuss over nothing it all was.

  Tuấn picked up the book he’d left on the coffee table; Dang Thuy Tram's diary. He'd wondered if it held secrets of guerrilla war. Surprisingly for a war memoir it contained no details on fighting. Tram was a lovesick medic and idealist- not a solider. But then, neither was he.

  'I've missed watching The good old days,' Gran said. Wriggling in her armchair she tried to make herself more comfortable.

  'That old show? I don't think they'll show sitcoms. Even Chinese ones. Just propaganda.'

  Gran swiped her hand through the air. 'Oh, Tuấn. You can be so pessimistic. You'll feel better when the curfew is lifted. Three days now you've been stuck here with me.' She chuckled. Her eyes wandered to the blank TV screen.

  In truth, he only obeyed the curfew for her sake. He didn't want to leave her alone. He'd begged her to stay with his uncle or even his father, but she wouldn’t leave the house. For now, his cell could do little but lay low since the city was on lockdown except within specified hours.

  A checkpoint been set up at the end of the street. Two armoured vehicles and a handful of soldiers. He'd watched them for a while from the rooftop patio. No traffic passed. Not even a pedestrian.

  He was shocked at the ease with which the Chinese took the city; barely a shot. He'd heard the occasional crack of gunfire, but nothing in the last two days. The Vietnamese army had abandoned the city to its fate. Perhaps it was part of a larger plan to spare the city needless destruction. Or preserve troops for a counterattack. Whatever the reason, for now they were on their own.

  'I want to go to the next food distribution,' Gran said, her tone low, her smile gone. 'We need rice and fresh food.'

  Tuấn sighed, rubbing his temples. 'Gran, we discussed this. Food distribution is their way of controlling us. You have to show your ID card... register your address.'

  'I don’t care if they know where I live. Nobody else visits. If the Chinese come, I’ll give them green tea.' Shrugging, she pulled a face.

  'Gran, please. It's not safe. Someone might rob you for the rations.'

  'I'd think my grandson would be with me,' she frowned at him. Of course she would expect him to carry the food on his bike. He couldn't tell her why he'd rather remain unknown to the Chinese.

  'If you went to stay with Uncle Thanh like I said, you wouldn't need to worry. Even with Dad. I'll drive you there tomorrow morning like I told you already.'

  'Eager to be rid of me?' She waved away his argument. 'I lived in this house since your Grandfather and I wed. This is where I'll stay.'

  Tuấn stood and paced the small room. He couldn't look after her and lead his little insurgency. There was another matter which he'd be putting off. 'Gran?' he kept his back to her. 'I must ask you for a thousand US dollars.'

  Seconds passed. Had she heard? He'd expected questions. He turned to face her. Her jaw jutted forward, her left eyebrow pressed down over her eye, scrutinizing him.

  'What are you up to?'

  He looked at the floor. He couldn't lie. If he did she would detect it. Stuffing his hands in his pockets he forced himself to meet her gaze. 'I can only say I desperately need it, and I need you to move in with Uncle or Dad so I can stay with my friends. Just until this is over.'

  Gran made a sucking noise, her lips pursed together. Would she say no? After all the money she gave Thanh would she deny him? Where else could he get money to buy a gun?

  'It's a lot of money. I don't have that much American money.'

  ‘I’m sorry to ask.’ He knew Vietnamese money had become worthless. US dollars could still be traded, but maybe not for much longer.

  'You're a good boy, Tuấn. I hope you're not planning something silly.'

  He nodded. Unable to bring himself to vocally assure her. The buzz of a motorbike throttling at some speed caught their attention. Tuấn turned instinctively to the sound, but with the doors closed he couldn't see the street.

  The engine grew louder until with a squeal of brakes it was right outside. He dropped his book. He forced himself to breathe. Had someone in the cell talked? The motorcycle horn blasted three times in quick succession.

  'Mom! Open up!'

  The outer gate rattled, pounded by an impatient fist. What was uncle Thanh doing here? After curfew time too.

  Blinking, Gran shook her head. Composing herself she waved Tuấn toward the door. 'Go on. Open it.'

  He rushed to the door- then remembering the keys he dashed back to the kitchen and snatched the key off its hook. He skidded to a stop at the door; almost slipping on the smooth tiles. The pounding continued as he unlocked and opened the inner door. Thanh gripped the bars of the gate, shaking them to create a great din.

  'Wait! I can't unlock it while you're rattling it!'

  'Hurry up, you little bastard!' Thanh's eyes almost bulged out of his fat head. He looked behind in a panic, continuing to rattle the bars.

  Tuấn stepped back from the gate, leaving it locked.

  Thanh spluttered. His nostrils flaring, he pulled on the bars with renewed might.

  'What have you done? Who's following you?' Tuấn demanded. He wasn't going to let that shit bring trouble into Gran's house.

  Thanh slammed the gate a final time with his open palm. His breath ragged from his exertions. He squatted; resting his hands on his thighs.

  'Your father's shot. He needs help.'

  'What?' His Uncle’s answer opened up so many other questions. He couldn't fathom which to ask.

  'Open the gate,' Thanh said in a low, defeated voice.

  Tuấn did as he was told; swinging the gate inward.

  Uncle didn't come inside. Instead he beckoned Tuấn to follow. 'Bring your bike. Bring mom too.'

  'I'm not taking her into danger,' Tuấn snapped.

  Thanh shook his head. 'It's safe. Just hurry.' He mounted his bike, and watched Tuấn walk his bike down the ramp. Gran waited quietly while Tuấn locked the doors. Even with most of the city empty it was unwise to leave it unsecured.

  The moment Tuấn took to the seat of his bike, Thanh was accelerating away. On his slower bike Tuấn struggled to keep up. A stray dog hopped with a limp out of the road at their approach. Sporadic litter dotted the streets; the lighter pieces whirling in the wake of Thanh's bike.

  Tuấn looked behind at Gran. The rush of air in he
r face made her wince. Strands of hair blown loose from her grey bun whipped behind her. Turning back to the road he saw Thanh slowing his bike on approaching two big armoured vehicles parked at 45 degree angles across the road. Several figures- undoubtedly soldiers stood beside the vehicles. He wanted to shout a warning but it was too late.

  The soldiers didn't seem to react to Thanh's arrival. A group of them huddled together between the two vehicles. As Tuấn slowed his approach he realised they were gathered around a body.

  He stopped his bike behind Thanh's; waiting for Gran to dismount before kicking down the bike's stand. He hurried after Thanh who stood among the soldiers. The soldiers were intimidating. Most carried a rifle or machine gun of some sort. Many had camouflage painted faces. The nearest soldier stopped Tuấn with a firm hand on the chest. He barked something in Chinese. Another soldier from the group near the body snapped something to his comrade who released Tuấn.

  Pushing through the circle of soldiers, Tuấn saw the wiry body of a man; his shirt ripped open. A hole in his ribcage below the left breast seeped dark blood. A soldier knelt cradling his head while dabbing the wound with a red sodden cloth. Tuấn didn't immediately recognise the man. Black hair clung to his sweaty forehead. Eyes closed. His weather worn face creased in agony; bearing his teeth against his pain.

  He hadn’t seen his father for over a year. He remembered him as strong and healthy. Life was seeping out of this stricken man.

  Gran knelt beside her son. Taking his arm in her hands she whispered his name. His eyes opened into slits. Closing a moment later as he winced in pain.

  'You should speak to your father,' Thanh mumbled.

  Tuấn nodded. He crouched beside him; his shadow falling over his father's face. He cleared his throat. Struggling to find how best to address his him; Dad just didn't seem right. 'Uh… I'm here. It's Tuấn.'

  The eyes opened. The pupils focused. Lips parted a fraction. Perhaps, Tuấn thought, father also didn’t recognise him.

  'Son...' His voice rasped.

  'Give him water,' Tuấn said to the soldier cradling his father's head; pointing to the canteen at his hip.

  The soldier unscrewed the flask. Touching it to his father lips he poured the slightest amount. The wet trickle dribbled down his cheek. The canteen was tipped up again. He pursed his lips to it this time; taking small sips. Gasping when the canteen was removed, as if that small exertion had robbed him of energy.

  'I was coming for you, son,' he croaked, reaching out his hand. 'I didn't want to leave without you.'

  Tuấn clasped his hand.

  'It's still curfew, and he ignore order to stop. Drove right past us,' one of the soldiers said in stilted Vietnamese, 'there was no choice.'

  ‘There was fighting in our street.’ Thanh said, his tone sounded accusing. ‘We had to get out fast. He insisted we pick you up before leaving the city. We should’ve left days ago.’

  Tuấn squeezed his father's hand. He couldn't think what to say. Did he forgive his father just because he was wounded? Was it enough that his father came back for him? The tarmac under him was a rusty colour; how much blood had he lost?

  'Will he live?' Tuấn said.

  'He's got cancer,' Thanh said, 'Doctor told him last week there's nothing they can do. Now this.'

  Tuấn had to steady himself with a hand on the floor. His father's wrongs seemed suddenly small. Before, there had been an eternity to right things. Now there were only moments.

  'Why didn't anyone tell me?' tears stung Tuấn's eyes.

  'He thought he could beat it. He didn't want anyone outside his family... uh, his new family to know.'

  'Dad.' Tuấn pressed his father's hand to his cheek. He wanted to tell him all was forgiven- that he was always going to forgive him- once the hurt passed. He knew that his keeping another woman had nothing to do with mother's death. It had been easy to blame him.

  'Son,' father forced a smile, 'I wanted to lay eyes on you again. That's all.'

  Gran caressed her son's cheek. He gritted his teeth and turned his face from the touch. A spasm gripped his body; tensing then relaxing in quick succession.

  The soldier cradling his father's head pulled a pouch from his tunic pocket. Tearing open the Velcro binding produced three small vials and a syringe. The soldier filled the syringe from one of the vials, then slammed the needle into father's chest.

  Father groaned, then gradually relaxed. His eyelids seemed to grow heavy. The grimace left his face. He seemed to struggle to remain awake. The sound of an approaching engine had everyone looking down the road. A jeep of some kind approached at speed. Tuấn’s attention returned to his father.

  'Be...' father's voice was almost a whisper, 'be better than I was.' His lips continued to move but even when Tuấn leaned close he couldn't hear the words.

  The jeep stopped almost beside them. It had a white canopy on the back bearing the Red Cross. A soldier wearing a white armband jumped out of the passenger side. Another soldier gently prised Gran from her son's side allowing the medic to take her place. Frowning, he picked up father's wrist, seeming to check the pulse.

  Father’s eyes were half shut. His mouth hung open. The medic stood up, putting his hands on his hips. He sighed and made a cutting motion with his index finger across his throat while shaking his head.

  'No! You didn't even try to save him. Try CPR... Try something!'

  Someone behind Tuấn hooked their hands under his armpits; trying to pull him away like they had Gran. Tuấn violently shrugged his shoulders. The grip remained.

  'You killed him!' he snarled at the soldier who administered the injection. 'You couldn't kill him with a bullet so you poisoned him!'

  'Morphine,' a soldier said.

  Tuấn didn't care. He kicked as the grip around arms tightened and he was dragged backward. Away from father's body.

  'You bastards! I'll kill you all!' he screamed.

  The soldiers turned away. The spectacle was over for them now that their victim had perished.

  'I swear I'll kill you!'

  'Shut up!' Thanh snapped, slapping his beefy hand over Tuấn's mouth.

  'Tuấn, Stop!' Gran held up her palm. Her eyes were puffy and red.

  Tuấn’s body fell limp in the arms of the soldier. Wrecked by sobs. He couldn't ever remember being close to his father. He missed the opportunity to make a connection; to have a father. Now, like Lâm, he was an orphan.

  Timothy

  14th March, 10:20

  It was disheartening to find some three or four hundred people waiting for audience at the Reunification Palace. The TV and Radio reported that the Palace was to become the administrative centre for the occupied regions of Southern Vietnam, which had been declared 'pacified' by the People's Liberation Army.

  Forced to wait in the queue with Nancy beside him, Tim surveyed the place. It looked much as it would have during the fall of Saigon in 1975 when North Vietnamese Tanks famously crashed through the gates, heralding the end of the war. The grass was neatly mowed and the large fountain surrounded by an array of colourful flowers. The building itself a huge rectangular slab with black slits for windows. An old Tank was kept on site as an immortalised reminder of the Communist Victory. Now its turret was ripped open; reduced to a twist of splintered metal as a reminder of the Chinese victory. Red flags still hung around the Palace exterior, but now they bore the five stars of China.

  Soldiers in shades of green camouflage patrolled the perimeter fence. They paced slowly; inspecting the civilians through narrowed eyes. They carried machine guns with the stock pressed into the nook of their arm and one finger poised next to the trigger. Holding the barrel pointing down at a 90-degree angle where they could snap it up to a firing position in a half second. Tim made sure to avoid eye contact. He'd already seen one person dragged out of line and searched on a whim.

  ‘I’m turning black,’ Nancy said. She had complained endlessly about exposure to sunlight, yet she wore large sunglasses, a light blue su
n-hat with a large orange flower on it, leggings and ankle high boots. Only her arms were exposed.

  A soldier shouted instructions in what Nancy declared as badly pronounced Vietnamese; ordering that everyone must have their identity documents ready. Among the dozen soldiers at the gates, one stood out in his white helmet, gloves and belt, contrasting with his dark green trousers and light green shirt. He appeared to be in charge. It was apparent that he was asking severe questions of those who would enter. Many were dismissed without admittance.

  There were several other westerners present. Sometimes a Chinese soldier would stop by a foreigner, examine his documents and wave him to the front to be fast-tracked through the gate. In the week since the occupation began, Tim had been largely ignored by the Chinese. Even when he'd tried to engage them through Nancy, who could speak passable Chinese. Foreigners were little more than an annoyance to them.

  He waited in line for an hour before a soldier came to him demanding his passport and visa. After a cursory examination he was waved to the front. Nancy squeezed his hand. He tried to convince himself that they would look favourably on him because he was from a neutral country. Equally, he thought they might decide to throw him into a cell for the remainder of their occupation.

  They waited while the white-helmeted officer confronted an elderly Vietnamese man. He barked something in Chinese which a camouflaged female soldier translated to Vietnamese. After a brief exchange, the officer pushed the old man and pointed for him to walk away. The man seemed confused and made to walk back to the gate.

  The officer pushed him again, harder. His eyes bulged, the tendons standing out on his narrow neck. His hand resting on his pistol holster; daring the old man to try to pass. The old man took the wise course of action and walked away, shoulders slumped in defeat.

  The officer swivelled to face Tim. He snapped something in an incredulous tone as he looked Tim up and down with a bewildered and slightly annoyed expression. Tim wondered if the officer practiced his wild eye-bulging stare in the mirror, perhaps while repeating in Chinese 'Are you talkin' to me?'