Lt. Zhang
16th March, 17:00
The journalist was an irritation. He had so many questions. Zhang answered while trying to direct the ZBD-04 ‘Infantry-fighting-vehicle’ and the commanders of the other APC's in the squadron. The journalist often had to shout or repeat himself to be heard over the engine and Zhang’s earphones. After an hour or so atop the turret he satisfied himself with merely taking photographs.
Zhang kept watch on the satellite map on his tablet. They turned into Nguyễn Thái Bình Street. There was a Chinese restaurant on the corner; its shutters were down. In any case they'd been warned about accepting food from locals during the initial phase of the occupation, until confidence had been gained.
The satellite map showed the 2nd APC moving along Nam Kỳ Khởi Nghĩa and the third along Lê Thị Hồng Gấm. The buildings in these streets were mostly long thin structures of varying size and colour. Signs declared hotels, shops, and businesses of all sorts. Shutters and gates were locked down over almost every doorway.
The Vietnamese flag still hung from the first floor of most homes. Either the occupants had fled or they were defiant enough to declare their nationalism. No orders had been issued against the display of their national flag. The leadership had gone as far as to endorse Vietnam's flag as the symbol of the volunteer police; a bold propaganda move proving that Vietnam was under China's control. Just as it had been in ancient times.
'What do you expect to achieve on this patrol, Lieutenant?' The journalist shouted.
'Achieve?' Zhang tutted while he considered any wider implication of the question. 'Just policing. To show the citizens that we're not here to destroy them, but to protect them.'
'Protect them from what?'
'Firstly, terrorists. You were subject to such an attack yourself this morning. I shouldn't need warn you about that danger, Mr Campbell.'
'But wouldn't you say these terrorists are a danger only to your military?'
'Perhaps, but we can't have rogue bands of militants running around with RPG's, can we?'
The Journalist frowned as he scribbled a note in his pad. Zhang had hoped to be rid of him sooner- that the journalist might want to recover following his ordeal, but he'd insisted on completing the patrol.
'So you're saying they don't have a chain of command? Just isolated troops making a last stand?'
'Exactly, Mr Campbell.' He forced a smile. 'Some enemy soldiers were cut off when the city came under our administration. Most surrendered. A few have put up rudimentary resistance.'
The Journalist shook his head. He could think what he liked, but if he thought lies or baseless accusations about the new order in Vietnam would make the Western press then he was a fool.
'Halt,' Zhang snapped. The APC shuddered to a stop. The engine changing from a tinny wheeze to a low rumble. At a first floor window some twenty metres down the street he spotted the top of a head with a shock of black hair over the windowsill. It could be a five-year-old boy, or a sniper. He lifted his field glasses to focus on the window. Whoever was there ducked the moment the binoculars were brought to bear. 'Right side of the street. Thirty metres. Grey mini hotel. Potential hazard. Disembark infantry and investigate.'
The rear doors of the APC whined open. The boots of the seven infantry soldiers scuffed the gravel as they disembarked. Running past the APC in single file they kept to the right side of the street.
'What's going on?' the journalist said.
'Probably nothing. Better safe than sorry, as you English say.'
'I'm Scottish, actually.'
'Isn't Scotland a province of England, Mr Campbell?' Zhang raised the binoculars again.
The entrance to the hotel was shuttered. The troops rattled the gate.
'Sir,' the voice of the squad sergeant crackled through Zhang's earpiece, 'entrance is barred. Permission to force entry?'
The expeditionary force had strict guidelines to abide by. It was unwise to force entry on a flimsy pretext. Diplomacy was the first step. Nobody on the patrol spoke fluent Vietnamese, however English was used widely in Vietnam. Zhang diverted his microphone to the APC's megaphone.
'Mai Long hotel, this is the PLA. Open your door immediately. Prepare for inspection.'
He waited half a minute without response, then switched the microphone back to internal communication.
'Turret 30 degrees right.' Perhaps a100mm gun pointing at the hotel would elicit some response. Again after a short wait, still no response. 'First squad, take down the door.'
The sergeant set a charge on the lock of the roll down gate. The troops backed up a few metres. Moments later there was a pop! accompanied by shattering glass. The soldiers pulled up the security gate and stormed through the broken glass of the inner door.
'Why are they going in?' the journalist piped up again.
Zhang focus remained fixed on the hotel. Within a minute, two soldiers emerged dragging a teenage boy by his collar. A young woman and an emaciated middle-aged man were also under armed escort. The journalist's camera clicked repeatedly.
'Building's clear, Lieutenant,' the sergeant reported.
'Note the address. Mount up.'
The soldiers trudged back to the APC. Leaving the family to clean the mess.
'What was all that about?' the journalist whined.
'You see Mr Campbell, if the gate had been opened we would have conducted a brief search and been on our way. I'll have to file a request for a repair crew to fix the gate and repair the glass.'
'Maybe they don’t understand English,' the journalist said.
'Could be,' Zhang muttered.
‘Or maybe they thought they’d get shot.’
‘Resume patrol,’ Zhang said into the mic.
The APC's doors slammed. The vehicle's great metal tracks began to clank around its large cog wheels; the engine whirring as the vehicle accelerated. Zhang's gaze moved over every window, rooftop and doorway, and down every alleyway they passed. He couldn't allow an RPG hit on his vehicle. Not after he'd seen the charred remains of unfortunate soldiers caught in the back of the wreck from the journalist’s convoy. He could still smell the human barbeque. Its stench clung to his clothes.
The journalist declined medical inspection. He said he'd rather get back on the horse. Journalists are a funny breed. Zhang couldn’t understand their passion for stories- usually coloured by their own opinions. Risking everything to get a news item. Dying for one's country was noble. Dying to get third page in a newspaper was folly. His crew referred to the reporter as Gweilo, meaning White devil. He seemed oblivious to their disdain so he saw no need to curb it.
'Soon we’ll finish the sweep, Mr Campbell, then return to base. There you can make your calls and send for your girl.'
'Assistant. She’s my assistant.'
The journalist sounded indignant. How long would he have to be pampered to? Any embarrassments he reported could have repercussions on Zhang's career.
The APC slowed on approaching the rendezvous point at the crossroads. The other two APC's were already in position and fell in behind Zhang's vehicle. Together they rolled through the street in single file with a mechanical whir of engines and tinny ring of metal tracks on the road.
He turned to a sound of shattering glass; glimpsing a figure flee into an alleyway. The sergeant in charge of the second APC was shouting orders. His turret already rotating to bring the barrel to bear.
'Dragon two. Hold fire,' Zhang growled.
'Sir? Let him go?'
'No. I just don't want to destroy residential buildings to get the boy who threw a bottle... All squads disembark.'
The rear doors of the APC squealed open. Again followed by the pounding of boots on tarmac. The soldiers from the three APC's took up defensive positions behind their respective parent vehicles and against the walls of nearby buildings. Each training their weapon in a different direction to provide the widest arc of fire.
'I'm dismounting. Sergeant you have command.' Without waiting for
an acknowledgement, Zhang pulled himself out of the turret. Removing his helmet and mic he felt instantly refreshed. The close fitting helmet was a harsh companion in this climate. He placed it on the turret next to the hatch, swung his legs over the side and dropped to the ground.
The journalist scrambled out of the turret after him. 'Where are you going? What's going on?'
He held up his palm. 'Squad one on me. We're going to apprehend the dissident alive. Remember; we have a foreigner journalist present.'
Two soldiers took point. Zhang followed next with the journalist close behind. The alleyway reminded him of backstreets in the older parts of Beijing. Although here no laundry hung between the closely built homes and no scent of incense hanging in the air. Stagnant puddles and discarded crates dotted the alley accompanied by the stench of rotting garbage.
The remains of a makeshift hovel of some dispossessed person leaned against a wall, with a sheet of corrugated iron serving as its roof. A few boards of wood made up the walls, and a filthy shower curtain served as the doorway.
One of the point soldiers moved the curtain aside with the tip of his weapon. He stood aside from the entrance, signalling for Zhang to look inside. The smell of excrement was strong. Bottles and jars lined the floor; some filled with a dark yellow liquid and others with faeces. He took shallow breaths but made no effort to cover his mouth or nose. In front of his soldiers it wouldn't do to show any manner of weakness.
'Christ! What the bloody hell is that?' the journalist spluttered.
'Piss. The boy threw a bottle of piss. He's been saving it up to use as missiles.' Zhang left the makeshift urine factory. Taking care to step over nearby puddles, he proceeded down the alleyway, leaving the journalist to take photos of the offending mess. The point soldiers rushed ahead; leading with their rifle barrels. Zhang kept his pistol holstered.
The prey burst from cover, the motion sent an empty stack of plastic crates crashing down. Taking off down the alley he tipped over any piled trash that he happened past in an effort to slow his pursuers. Zhang broke into a sprint; quickly overtaking the point men. 'Stop!'
The youth glanced behind, then disappeared around a bend in the alley. He looked about 16 years old. Wearing bright yellow trainers, fashionable tight jeans and a slim-fit black jacket with sleeves rolled up to the elbow.
Turning the corner Zhang caught a glimpse of the youth barging through a door. It was still rebounding from being flung open against the outside wall when Zhang sprinted through the doorway.
He was in an old residential complex; probably housing for the poor. The paint on the walls was peeling. Dark stains spattered the walls and floor. The hallway was lined by thick fire doors spaced about five metres apart. Hearing rushed footfalls on the metal stairwell, he continued pursuit. Army boots scuffed the gravel outside, running past the apartment complex; unaware the chase had diverted into the building.
As he reached the top of the stairwell he heard the tell-tale sound of a door slamming. He waited. Listening. Keeping his breathing shallow. Seconds passed. Nothing. In the crack under a nearby door he saw a shadow; someone stood behind it. He rushed it. Delivering a kick with the sole of his boot with all his force. The door flew open- connecting with the head of the teenager. The door handle crashed against the wall as the boy was sent sprawling to the floor. Zhang adopted a fighting stance; clenching his fists, ready to strike. Staring back at him from within the studio apartment was not one frightened and stunned teenagers but five.
Four youths sat on the floor in a semicircle around a TV on which they'd paused some shooting videogame. Empty cans of beer surround them. The Lieutenant and the teenagers stared at each other for a few seconds. One who looked a little older than the others stood, raising his fists. The others hesitated to move. The one he’d chased was sprawled on his back. He crawled backwards on his elbows and heels until among his friends.
Zhang unfastened his belt; letting his holstered pistol and canteen drop to the floor. Then unfastened his flack-jacket and tunic so that he stood before the youths in just his vest, combat trousers and army boots. Closing the door behind him, he resumed his stance.
The other youths stood; encouraged by their elder. Most holding fists up ready to fight. Zhang beckoned them with his index and forefinger. The elder charged first.
Zhang slapped his palm over the youth's face, shoving him backward to be caught by his friends.
'If you can get past me, you can leave.' Zhang said in English.
Three rushed him together. He grabbed the leader by the hair and used his head to block a strike from another youth. Releasing him, he kicked. His boot connecting with the boy's chest sent him sprawling. He swept a punch aside from the next kid, knocking him off balance. A shove to the sent the him to the ground, tripping the third assailant.
The eldest, back on his feet, squared up in a boxing pose. Zhang lashed out. His fist bypassing the youth’s defence and slamming into his temple. The boy's eyes rolled back. He collapsed unconscious to the floor.
A scrawny kid threw an empty beer can which clipped Zhang's shoulder, then rushed him in a tackle. He allowed the boy to achieve contact; his firm stance resisting any backward movement. Taking the boy by the waist, he lifted him and turned him upside down. He let the boy fall the floor where he landed with a yelp, rolling onto his side cradling his neck.
He looked for his next opponent. Those not prostrated cowered at the far side of the room. One scrambled to his feet and ran to the sink in the small dirty kitchenette. Zhang made no effort to intercept him. The boy whirled about, brandishing a kitchen knife.
Zhang shook his head. 'You don’t want to bring that near me.'
The boy stepped back, bumping into the sink, still pointing the blade.
'Drop it,' said Zhang.
The knife fell from shaking fingers and clattered on the tiled floor.
'All of you sit in the middle of the room. Put your hands on your heads.'
Nudging them with his boot, he herded them together. The eldest, regaining consciousness had the sense to skoot across the floor before Zhang could prompt him to move. The one with the injured neck pulled himself along the floor on one elbow. His face still contorted in pain as he cradled his neck. The five of them ended in a huddle casting reproachful looks at their captor.
He squatted and looked each of them in the eye. They looked afraid. He pointed at the one he'd chased. 'Why did you throw piss?'
The kid kept his eyes down. Zhang knew most Vietnamese youths spoke English. He grabbed the kid’s ears and yanked his face toward his own, eliciting a yelp.
'I... I wanted to make you leave.'
'Throwing piss at is going to make us leave?'
'I guess, no.'
Zhang released him then lashed out with the back of his hand; clipping the side of the boy's head. His hair flicked up at the impact. 'Idiots! You want to get shot?'
'We don't have real weapons,' one boy offered in a half mumble.
'Where are your parents?'
'We're migrant workers and students. Our families are from the countryside,' the eldest said.
'Is this your resistance? Best I arrest you now before you get yourselves killed. Five of you couldn't defeat one unarmed soldier. Idiots!'
'You're a Taekwondo master,' complained the one he'd chased.
'Chinese Kung-Fu. Now, you will be taken to a detention centre and processed. It’s safer for you. Stay out of trouble.'
The eldest boy grunted as Zhang slapped the side of his head- just to make sure he was heeding the advice. Boots thumped the staircase and corridor outside; it had to be first squad.
'I'm in here! Room’s clear!' he shouted.
The point man pushed the door open; keeping his weapon trained. The lead elements of the squad filed in. Lowering weapons when they saw their Lieutenant at ease.
The squad sergeant oversaw the cable-tying of prisoner’s hands behind their backs; one soldier held the head down while another tied the hands. Zhang looked
over the room. There was nothing of any significance. The boys had been sleeping on mattresses on the floor. There were no weapons. They'd stockpiled beer and soda cans but little food. He'd done them a service by taking them into the care of the PLA. The journalist snapped more photographs than Zhang thought necessary.
The boys were led outside and marched back through the alleyway to the awaiting APC's. Each vehicle had been carrying its full complement of three crew and seven soldiers, so five men had ride atop the APC's to make room for their prisoners.
'What was the point in that?' the journalist asked when they resumed their positions in the turret.
'A bottle of piss is nothing, Mr Campbell,' Zhang said with a stiff, polite smile. 'But we cannot allow any of them to disrespect China.'
The little convoy rolled on through the streets to a bus station opposite the famous Ben Thanh market. The station had become a staging ground for PLA ground forces. The large open tarmac area had been surrounded by barbed wire and waist high sandbag walls. A dozen APC's from the 54th Mechanized regiment were lined up along with an assortment of other vehicles. Soldiers lazed under bus shelters; sitting or laying with their kit bags. Smoking and playing cards while waiting for their assigned patrol.
Guards were positioned at intervals behind the sandbag wall. Circular redoubts had been fashioned for heavy machine gun emplacements. In front of the APC's civilians sat in ranks three deep and perhaps a hundred long. Most were men. All had hands tied.
'What's that all about?' the journalist demanded, already taking photos.
'Suspects. We’re rooting out dissidents.'
'Like the children you arrested?'
He shot the journalist a cold sideways glance. He'd already explained himself. He wouldn’t do so again. Westerners could be very judgemental. The Vietnamese were getting better treatment than they had during war with the Americans or the French.
The trio of APC's joined the row of parked vehicles. When the last one parked the soldiers disembarked and prisoners were escorted to join their fellow detainees.
'What will happen to them?' the journalist said, looking through his camera lens.
The March of the Dragons Page 16