'Careful where you tread,' Zhang whispered, 'the building is Swiss cheese.'
The point man led them to the second floor, along a passage to the first of two doorways. The private scanned the length of the first room with his assault rifle. Zhang covered him from the doorway as the private moved inside the room. Two soldiers advanced to the second room.
No piece of furniture remained unscathed. Shards of splintered wood and glass were scattered throughout. Strikes from the larger calibre 100mm gun had passed straight through the house into the office building behind. A grinning soldier peered through a hole in the wall from the second room, waving at the point man.
'Idiot!' hissed the sergeant, 'we're not on a sightseeing tour.'
The point man whistled. Making a chopping motion with his hand he indicated the position of a body- half covered by rubble. Another body slumped against the wall on the far side of the room. Zhang moved to the first body. Only visible below the waist, he wore black boots and the lime green trousers of the Vietnamese army. The bazooka was visible from under the crumbled stone, dust and furniture fragments. The body against the wall was a boy of 19 or 20 years, wearing a football shirt. Beside him lay a bazooka round.
'Clear.' The point man reported.
On the rooftop they found what was left of the sniper. He'd been laid prone, concealed between two large plant pots. A 30mm cannon round had eviscerated him. His torso turned to red mush; exploding like a water balloon filled with blood. Even his weapon was in fragments.
'Hell, that's sick,' muttered a private. Another retched.
'Let's get out of here,' Zhang said, already walking to the staircase.
They emerged into the street to find three more APC's and a ZZH-09 command vehicle. Soldiers were advancing along both sides of the street, while through an APC’s loudspeaker a voice called in broken Vietnamese for civilians to come outside and allow their homes to be searched.
Zhang headed for the command vehicle, which on eight huge tyres stood a little taller than the ZBD-04 troop transports and lacked their gun turret; instead carrying an eight-foot radio antenna. Lieutenant Chan stood beside the vehicle conversing with the battalion commander, Major Hu.
'Lieutenant Zhang!' Major Hu called out cheerfully.
'Major.' Zhang kicked his heels together and saluted.
The Major touched his fingertips to his temple and flicked his wrist in a casual, almost flippant salute. 'Lieutenant Chan tells me you rushed the sniper nest all on your own.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good, good,' the Major said, puffing on a cigarette, 'you've done well. You're wasted on this patrol duty. I may move you to HQ.'
Chan's jaw dropped. Regaining his composure after a moment, his eyes narrowed. For a moment Zhang thought that his fellow officer would object the posting. Junior officers competed for the chance to rub shoulders at HQ; to get their faces seen and do a few favours. Say the right things and a promotion wouldn't be far off.
'May I speak freely, sir?' Zhang said.
The Major shrugged, gesturing for him to continue.
'I’m honoured. But my place is in the field.'
The Major laughed. 'Lieutenant, you're a good soldier. A killer; I see it in your eyes!' Major Hu leaned towards him, looking into his eyes. His toothy grin lingering. 'You're trying to make up for what your father did in Tibet. Many doubt your loyalty. I don't. You try too hard to prove yourself.'
Zhang looked away. Feeling blood rush to his face. He'd been a Lieutenant for two years. The best junior officer in the battalion. His father's reputation held him back; even now he was being side-lined as an errand boy or clerk.
Major Hu clapped his hand on his shoulder. 'Don't worry! We'll find you something suitable. Now, how many dead enemies?'
'Three,' Zhang said, straightening back into attention, 'two soldiers, one civilian.'
'Civilians again!' Major Hu pointed his cigarette at Zhang. 'Damned civilians have become a thorn. Every recent attack orchestrated by or supported by the people we're feeding.'
'Yes, sir.'
'You know what else?' the Major paced, breathing heavily, 'we restored electricity to three thousand homes. Supply food so they don't have to survive on black market prices! Reopened schools, businesses... and not one Viet has thanked us. Even those assisting us are reluctant and lazy.'
The Lieutenants nodded even though the major didn't look at them. His eyes cast away in thought as he walked back and forth leaving a small trail of cigarette smoke behind him.
'Ungrateful lice, sir,' Chan said.
Major Hu spun on his heel. Cocking his head, he looked at Chan through narrowed eyes as if noticing him for the first time. 'It's time we taught them a lesson!'
'Sir?' Zhang said.
The Major crossed his arms over his chest. 'Between here and the next junction, every male between eighteen and fifty shall be shot.'
Zhang exchanged looks of shock with Lieutenant Chan.
'Sir, the Geneva convention-' Zhang was cut off by the major's upraised palm.
'The Vietnamese don't give a shit about the Geneva convention. We're a long way from Geneva.'
'Sir,' Zhang continued, 'our mission is to pacify the Vietnamese. Not obliterate them.'
'I know what our mission is, Lieutenant.' The Major sneered, 'the order for swift reprisals has come down from Corps HQ.'
'I must object, sir.'
'Your objection is noted, Lieutenant.' The Major turned away. Climbing through the side hatch of his command APC, the iron door slammed behind him.
'Why didn't you say something?' Zhang scowled at Lieutenant Chan.
'Say what? He outranks us!'
'When word of this comes out, we'll be charged alongside him.'
Chan pointed at the command vehicle. 'It's his order.'
'You have it in writing?'
Chan's mouth formed a surprised 'o'.
'We never forgave Japan for Nanjing. The Vietnamese will never forget this.'
Chan nodded. 'That may be. However, the Japanese were never punished for Nanjing.'
Disgusted, Zhang returned to his APC without another word.
He removed his mic headset. He took the picture of Mingxia from his breast pocket. He hadn't looked at the photo often. Somehow it seemed easier to keep thoughts of home locked away and to concentrate only on the present. Did she still think of him? They dated for only two months before her parents denied their match on account of his father's disgrace.
A volley of gunfire blasted outside. He covered Mingxia's face with his thumb. When the firing subsided he put the picture back in his pocket.
The order soon came to return to base. The APC's of Dragon troop lined up and once the last soldier was aboard they rolled out. Vietnamese women, children and the elderly had been corralled together. They huddled, weeping beside their murdered loved ones. From the turret Zhang saw the row of bodies: perhaps twenty in all. Major Hu stood beside them. He glowered at Zhang as the APC trundled past.
'You'll be reassigned for your own good!' Major Hu called out, 'you're too much like your father!'
No, he thought. His father was arrested for refusing to violently subdue Tibetans. Zhang allowed Hu to commit an atrocity. His father would be disgusted.
Phượng
20th March, 09:15
A Tank was parked directly outside the University. Behind it, a trio of army trucks with wheels taller than her. Phượng stopped her bike in the road and looked back the way she came; three soldiers accosted a student she’d passed moments before. The student stood at the side of the road with his hands on his head. One soldier kept his weapon trained on him while another searched his rucksack. The third solder was watching Phượng. She couldn't go back. At the school gates a half dozen soldiers waited for her.
She mouthed a silent prayer and twitched the throttle. Driving slowly toward the University entrance. Two soldiers began walking toward her; one held up his hand for her to stop. They were Vietnamese. The realisation filled her
with revulsion. They wore the green boiler suit and red armband of the 'Vietnamese People's Volunteer Police'. Some looked as young as her, but one who stopped her was much older, his receding hair more grey than black. His tan skin leathery and wrinkled. They carried no arms other than two foot batons.
'Em, you're a student?' the elder man asked.
'Yes, anh.'
'Show me your ID card.'
'It's inside my moped.' She slid off the seat and began to lift her bike seat when one of the younger men touched her hand with his baton.
'Careful. Let me see.'
Trying to control the trembling in her limbs, she stepped back, allowing the militiaman to rummage through the storage compartment. He tossed her belongings to the floor. The other guards watched the process. A Chinese soldier leaned against the tank, smoking a cigarette, watching his Vietnamese subordinates work.
'Hey, what are you looking at?' the older man snarled. Prodding her chest with his baton. 'You look nervous.'
'She's hiding something,' said another. Losing interest in the bike they gathered around her.
She stepped back. They were enemies in each direction. There was nowhere to run.
'Search her,' commanded the elder man.
A short guard with a vicious face, sweat stained armpits and greasy hair lunged; grabbing the front of her blouse. 'Stay!' he barked.
Batons prodded her. The sour little man pulled her yellow motorbike hat off her head- hurling it aside. Someone grabbed her left wrist. Another seized her right arm above the elbow. She squirmed. Grips tightened. The little man ripped the surgical mask from her face. She cried out. His hands pressed against her ribs; firm and rough they ran up to her armpits and across her chest. His hands clasped her breasts, squeezing hard.
'Stop, please!' She cried. She stumbled. Her captors pulled her back to her feet.
The little man grabbed her breasts again. Staring into her eyes, his mouth twisted in a sadistic leer. His hot, fetid breath filled her nostrils. His hand went down the top of her blouse, inside her bra. Fingers pinching her nipple, making her cry out again.
A baton was pressed under her chin. The hands binding her pulled her to the ground. The short man straddled her stomach. She turned away from his evil, sneering face. Saliva dripped onto her cheek. His laugh was like a pig's grunting.
She couldn’t budge her arms, but she kicked wildly with both feet; failing to connect with anything. She gritted her teeth; panicking unsure what to do. Everything was happening too fast. Hands tugged at her belt. She pressed her legs together but her knees were roughly jerked apart. Fingers pressed against the fabric of her trousers along her inner thigh.
'Rip her clothes,' someone said.
Faces looked down on her, silhouetted against the sun. She felt pressure on every limb. She tried to summon strength to rise. Her captors didn’t seem to even realise her effort.
'Can we do this?' someone said.
'Sure,' the little man sneered, 'we can do what we like.'
She looked to where the Tank was parked. She could see the Chinese soldier still watching. He flicked away his cigarette and folded his arms across his chest.
Someone tugged on her belt. The force pulled her waist off the ground. She tried to swing her fists, but the grip on her wrists intensified. Hands pinned her shoulders to the floor. She lunged with her teeth. Finding a target, she bit as deeply as she could. Her teeth felt the resistance of bone, yet still she increased the pressure. She wasn’t letting go.
'Bitch!'
A force slammed her head to the concrete. The shock of the impact made her yelp. Her teeth lost their mark. The men were laughing and cursing as she struggled. Her vision was blurred by tears. She cried out. Still they laughed.
'Get off her, brutes!' A voice shouted from across the courtyard.
'Get in line! You can go last.'
'I said, leave her. Now!'
The hands binding her lifted all at once. Her assailants moved toward the threat. Even the short man shifted on top of her as he turned his attention.
'What are you going to do?' one of the ruffians demanded.
Her saviour was one of the teachers, Professor Lê; one of the longest standing lecturers at the University. A thin man who walked with a cane due to an old injury.
'I'll report the lot of you,' Professor Lê snapped, pointing his cane at Phượng. 'Let her go.'
One of the guards lunged. The Professor stumbled backward; falling to the ground. The thugs guffawed at him. All except the short man surrounded Professor Lê.
'No!' Phượng wailed.
They rained their batons down on the Professor. Each hit marked by a dull thud against his body. His arm raised defensively over his head.
The short man turned his attention back to Phượng. Yanking her blouse upward, pulling the hem to her chin. She slapped his face. Closed her hand into a fist and struck again. He caught the punch. Closing his fingers around it, squeezing so that her knuckles felt they might snap.
'Stop all this!' a voice shouted in Chinese.
The little man paused. His cruel grin became a sad pout. His eyebrows raised like a boy caught stealing buns. Professor Lê's attackers held their batons in mid strike.
'Get off them, now!'
Nobody moved. Phượng realised none of them understood Chinese.
'He's saying get off me, you bastard!' she hissed.
The short man’s face scrunched in puzzlement, but he didn't budge. The sound of boots rushing toward them across the forecourt was enough to make him get off her and retreat several steps.
Phượng pulled her blouse back down. With shaking hands, she slipped her belt strap through the buckle. She pushed herself up to a sitting position. Flinching when hands grasped her under the armpits. She began to struggle, but was pulled to her feet then released.
She turned to face her saviour. For an instant she thought it was Tuấn. The man had his pronounced cheekbones and straight nose. Then she noticed the combat fatigues. Scowling, she stepped back from the soldier.
'You ok?' he asked in Chinese.
Phượng nodded.
'You understand Mandarin?'
She nodded.
'Go on inside. I'll deal with them,' he said in a soft voice.
She went to the stricken professor. He sat wincing. Gingerly feeling his ribs.
'Can you stand, anh?'
He grunted. Phượng picked up his cane and helped him stand. The hooligans kept their distance, glowering at her. She supported the professor as they hobbled together to the main entrance. She looked behind, the soldier watched them. He had the nerve to wave.
'Put the things inside the girl's bike,' he snapped at his thugs.
Only now she noticed the dozen or so faces pressed against the University windows. Her fellow students. At least one was unashamedly filming with his mobile phone. She helped Professor Lê to his empty classroom. He kept insisting he could walk but she held his arm anyway.
'Those rascals can't even beat an old man properly,' he groaned as she helped him into a chair.
'You're not so old, Professor.'
Mrs Nguyễn, a science lecturer, rushed into the classroom with a first aid kit.
'Oh, you poor things. I saw it all,' she cried, setting the aid kit down on a desk and popping it open.
'Didn't help though, did you?' Phượng snapped, immediately regretting her tone.
Mrs Nguyễn paused. Holding the medical kit half open. Her face twitched like she'd received a small electric shock. 'You're traumatised. I'll forget your words.'
Phượng moved behind the Professor, and gently massaged his shoulders.
'It's alright,' the professor said, patting her hand. 'Just a few bruises. I'll be fine. It's you we should be worrying about.'
Mrs Nguyễn pursed her lips while her fingers probed the Professor's ribs. He flinched.
'I'll fetch a bag of ice.' Mrs Nguyễn murmured, closing the medical kit. Her heels clicked across the floor as she rush
ed to her errand; almost colliding with Mr Cường as he hurried in with Tuấn close behind.
Tuấn ran to her side. Grabbing her arm with both hands. 'I just heard. Are you ok?' he demanded, his breath ragged.
'Yes.' She wrestled her arm free of his grip.
His eyes narrowed. 'Bastards! I'll kill them.'
'You'll do no such thing,' Mr Cường said, glaring over the rim of his glasses.
Tuấn's nostrils flared. Pulling out a chair from the nearest desk he sat with a heavy thump.
'Professor Lê, are you in much pain?' Mr Cường asked, eyeing a purpled lump on the Professor's forehead.
'Oh, I'll survive. That soldier stopped them before they could do any damage.'
Mr Cường nodded. 'One of my students has a first aid certificate. I'll send for her.'
'No need. Stop fussing.' The Professor forced a smile. He crossed his legs; making a show of being casual.
Sighing, Mr Cường sat at the adjacent desk.
'Those hoodlums have pestered everyone coming onto the University grounds this morning. The Chinese stay outside, letting their bullies’ fish out suspects. Three students have been arrested.'
'We should rescue them,' Tuấn said.
Mr Cường shot him a warning look.
'We have weapons,' Tuấn insisted, 'this is the sort of thing we should be using them for!'
'What's this?' Professor Lê looked startled. His eyes passed between the student and lecturer. 'Weapons?'
'I warned you, Tuấn. Don't discuss it with anyone,' Mr Cường growled.
'What have you got your students involved in?' Professor Lê demanded.
'It's alright,' Phượng whispered into his ear.
'What?' Professor Lê peered around at her.
She read the disappointment and shock in his expression. She let her hands drop to her sides.
'You're in this too?' he cried, aghast.
'We're doing what needs to be done.' Mr Cường said in a steadied tone.
'You'll get them killed!'
Mr Cường shook his head. 'I'm not going to argue with you, Professor. You're my senior, but this isn't about the university.'
The March of the Dragons Page 20