For the Sake of All Living Things (29 page)

“Here,” Bok answered slowly. “Yes. But where we’re going they’re bombing both sides.”

The jeep with Bok, Nang and four political officers lurched and jolted south down the narrow mountain road from Bu Ntoll to Highway 14, sped west, then south, on a comparatively smooth though rutted graveled roadway. For an hour they bounced and banged in the vehicle as it approached the border near Bu Jerman. Twice they passed through ghost villages: one bombed out, trees splintered, homes swallowed by craters; the second empty, villager-abandoned or inhabitants-exterminated without a trace. Bok Roh knew. Nang did not ask.

They approached the border. The jeep slowed, entered a one-lane passage. Without lights they bumped over heaves, crashed into potholes. A light flicked—on off on off. In the haze which packed itself between leaves, vines and fronds, Nang could not judge the distance to the source. Again, on off on off. Either a strong beam at a distance or a weak one very close. “We’ll switch here,” Bok said to him quietly.

Nang felt uncomfortable. He was unarmed. They left the jeep and immediately were directed to the backs of small, unseen motorcycles. The entire political entourage mounted up. Riders kick-started the bikes. A dozen muffled coughs sounded in the dark.

For an hour they rode, first down the side road through fields of sugarcane and manioc, then up and down a military trail which brought them to a small cottage. Bok Roh disappeared, reemerged in a black pajama uniform. “Follow me,” he told Nang in Khmer.

“Where to?” Nang asked.

For half an hour they walked through the jungle on a narrow dirt path. With each step Nang tried to anticipate what lay ahead but the secrecy of the movement left him without even the flimsiest foundation upon which to build.

Again they halted at a lone jungle cottage. Nang could hear and smell chickens in a coop, could hear a stream babble, but in the dark he saw nothing.

Bok bent and spoke quietly. “Pham says you must also change.”

“Where are we?”

“By the Song Be,” Bok Roh answered.

“In Cambodia?”

“No. We haven’t been there for two hours.”

“Will we go much farther?”

“A little. This is the first security ring of the Dong Nai Regiment.”

Nang emerged from the cottage dressed in identical black pajamas as Bok Roh and the others. He was escorted to a second cottage crammed with men he viewed as very old and overly polite. For hours the men talked in the dim light of a lantern. Bok Roh was often spoken to, directed, ordered. He was not part of the conversation. Nang curled up in a corner, pretended sleep, attempted to understand the security procedure, attempted to formulate a report for Met Sar.

“You are Hai Hoa Binh.” Bok Roh nudged Nang.

“Eh?”

“Second Peaceful One,” Bok said. “Because you sleep like a baby and you follow me. Come now.”

Soldiers, officers, support personnel and cadres of the Dong Nai Regiment were assembled three hundred strong in a large, open-sided, temporary hall. Representatives of nine other Viet Cong units, plus dignitaries and leaders of the National Liberation Front (NLF), the Provisional Revolutionary Government (PRG), the North Viet Namese Army and the Central Office for South Viet Nam (COSVN) were seated at tables before a low stage. Draped behind the stage were two five-by-ten-foot red and blue flags with yellow stars in the middle. To one side a huge poster declared, NOTHING IS MORE PRECIOUS THAN INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY. Strains of “Liberate the South,” the NLF anthem, played as the last of the dignitaries entered.

Nang sat with the soldiers toward the rear. His blood was aboil in the presence of so many yuons but his countenance was that of a sleepy child. Again Bok Roh had vanished.

The Viet Cong Dong Nai Regiment had been heavily wounded by the U.S. 1st Infantry Division early in 1969 when Alpha Company, 1st of the 26th, blew up the regiment’s base camp along the Song Be River south of An Loc. The regiment relocated farther north where the U.S. 1st Air Cavalry Division destroyed their major food and materiel caches. Again they’d moved north, establishing a small camp on the Song Be twenty miles northeast of An Loc, eleven miles from the Cambodian border.

The rally was formal. Opening remarks by the Dong Nai commander were followed by briefings on the political, military and diplomatic status of the liberation effort, then by reports of specific activities by local units and urban front organizations.

Nang’s attention wandered. Between reports he rose, excused himself, indicating he needed to urinate. The morning had dawned without rain, without mist. By nine the sun had dried exposed surfaces, the temperature had risen. Nang meandered; yet, aware of the numerous guards, he merely peered into the surrounding camp. He was surprised at the crude shelters. Compared to Bu Ntoll the camp was a slum; compared to Mount Aural it was a pigmire. He noted the soldiers, officers and dignitaries. All seemed in a state of semistarvation. One in ten seemed sickly, jaundiced, infected with malaria. He snooped further.

Unit morale was low. In 1967, 27,178 Viet Cong soldiers deserted the Communist ranks and rallied to the government of South Viet Nam under the Open Arms, or
Chieu Hoi
, program. In 1968 the figure dropped to 18,171. In 1969, by November, more than forty thousand had rallied. Communist field strength in South Viet Nam and the border sanctuaries was at least seventy percent North Viet Namese. Numerous traditionally indigenous southern rebel units were manned by upwards of ninety-five percent Northern soldiers. Nearly every Viet Cong unit shared command with or was commanded by NVA officers. Few North Viet Namese soldiers had defected: 284 in 1968, 302 to November 1969.

Nang returned to the hall. He noted the NVA officers with whom he’d arrived. The VC, he thought, must receive only half the Northern ration. Like Khmers, he thought. Opening their arms to Northern crocodiles who lure them with words and plans, who wish to devour them.

In the hall NVA officers wore dress khaki uniforms, dignitaries wore loose tan or light gray trousers and open short-sleeve shirts. Then Bok appeared. Nang’s body turned to stone. A low chatter rippled across the audience. Bok was dressed in a white tropical suit, white shirt and narrow red tie.

In such dress it was impossible to tell Bok’s ethnic or racial origin—he could have been Mountaineer or American Indian; Khmer, North Viet Namese, or Mongolian; Pakistani, Azerbaijani or Turkmenian. With his stature, his knowledge and his linguistic abilities he, in one man, could represent a quarter of the world’s people.

Nang’s eyes squinted, his face hardened, dagger beams slashed through jungle air piercing his mentor’s heart. How dare he, how dare he...I am the chameleon.

Bok’s head snapped to the beam as if directed by electronic sensors, his own beam clashing with Nang’s, attempting to blast it back into the boy’s head, two pairs of hate-seeking lasers in collision above the heads of the Dong Nai soldiers.

“...please welcome Ba Bac.” The regimental executive officer introduced him as Number Three Uncle, a Viet Namese identity to which the weary troops could cling—could value the man in white only slightly below Bac Ho, Uncle Ho. To establish his prestige further the XO had given Bok the title of Political Affairs Officer, Extraordinary, and had explained that he was the NLF’s ambassador to the Khmer Viet Minh, an organization the soldiers knew only as a supporter of their cause.

Humbly Bok bowed his immense frame. He spoke a formal, rhythmic Viet Namese. “In two days,” Bok Roh began, “we will fight again. In a week the general offensive will be under way. Everything,
everything
, must be aimed at making the Americans withdraw. That is the first priority for all Asians. In the South, in the North, in Cambodia, all who seek to strengthen our great, united solidarity must struggle ceaselessly to renew their moral commitment during our country’s most difficult period.

“We fight on four fronts. The military, the political, the diplomatic and the domestic front in the United States...”

Nang turned to the soldier beside him. The man, like Nang, was less wrapped in Number Three Uncle’s words than were the mass of soldiers surrounding them.

“...every military clash has consequences far beyond its immediate and apparent outcome...”

The soldier glanced at Nang. “You’re new?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Nang answered.

“...In the integrated whole, every act, every propaganda appeal, assists our cause. Each battle is a psychological event. Each negotiation strengthens our battlefield position...”

“You’re very young.”

“Not so young.”

“...
danh va dam, dam va danh
...” (Fighting is talking, talking is fighting.)

“We’ll talk later.”

“A little.”

“...Your persistent military actions are impacting on America’s perseverance. I want to tell you what else is happening to positively affect your strong efforts. This past month, Premier Pham Van Dong signed new agreements with China and the Soviet Union guaranteeing an unceasing flow of food, arms and ammunition. This past month American protestors demonstrated their great wish for peace in a moratorium march on Washington. Within a week, Richard Nixon is expected to propose a unilateral, a leopard-spot [units-in-place] ceasefire. The United States has withdrawn twenty of every one hundred combat soldiers. The
nguy
[puppet] army pales like a man who has lost one fifth of his blood...”

“I’ve not seen Number Three Uncle before, have you?”

“I know him, a little.”

“I’m Truong Cao Kiet,” the soldier whispered. “I too am new here.”

Nang did not turn to look at the soldier but viewed him intensely from the corner of his eye. He did not trust this man, did not believe this was his name. Yet, with his attention split, he made an error, one he recognized as the words slipped from his lips. “They call me Hai Hoa Binh,” he said, giving an obvious code name which would indicate to the soldier that he, Nang, was not simply a soldier but someone whose identity must be masked.

“...when the American president announces the withdrawal of a unit he tells his people it is a signal to us, a show of their willingness to negotiate. In reality, Mr. Nixon is placating U.S. public opinion...”

“We’ll talk later,” Truong Cao Kiet said.

“Perhaps,” Nang said. Suddenly he felt like the boy he actually was. He could not think of a way to extricate himself from suspicion without raising even more. He closed his mouth, concentrated on Bok Roh.

“...We’ll hit and run. We’ll talk ceasefire but never stop until we’ve unified the nation. As we continue the armed struggle in the countryside, our counterparts redouble their political struggle in the urban centers. In Cambodia our partners solidify their role in aiding our just cause. Our successes increase their power. Their power feeds our successes...”

To Nang, as Bok Roh spoke he lost his magic. He became another politician, a lecturer babbling without might. Soon, Nang thought, soon, I will leave this miserable country. When his attention returned to the words spoken he was surprised to find Bok lecturing in terms of Marxist philosophy. The VC, unlike the NVA, were seldom exposed to straight political ideology. To them their objective was to deliver the country from foreign domination and the oppression of the Thieu regime.

“...through these disguised organizations we can induce the masses to respond to our struggle slogans. Through them we will rally the masses, step-by-step, in accord with the directions of the revolution. We will renew our effort to bring about the general uprising...”

You yuon-loving fool, Nang thought. You know this talk is the work of a dull Northern functionary. Look at these fools. Why are soldiers dumb? He knows his words are just so much low wind.

“...In two days we shall roll back the Saigon lackey pacification program by striking the Chieu Hoi centers and the villages erected to house traitors. In a week, we’ll attack American weak points. Everything must be done to make the Americans withdraw...”

On the harried trip back to Bu Ntoll Nang whispered to Bok, “Why do you serve the Northerners?”

Bok eyed his young charge. The question was idolatrous. “The Northerners fight for all third-world people,” Bok Roh said coolly in Viet Namese. “Their victory is inevitable because their cause is just.”

“I spoke with Truong Cao Kiet. He was very worried and very unsure.”

“He is a
nguy
agent. We know him. He’ll be eliminated during the offensive.”

“Kiet!?”

“Le. Tran Van Le. That’s his name. You shouldn’t listen to men like that.”

“Uncle, he...he...he seemed to have so much hate for Americans.”

“I don’t hate them.” The conversation irritated Bok Roh and he didn’t hide his anger. “Le hates for show,” Bok said. He put his hand on Nang’s knee as a father might a small son. “I feel sorry at American deaths. They die young because of the Washington governing clique.”

“You feel...! They kill without thought,” Nang retorted.

“Their people mourn for the Viet Namese people. Americans carry a great burden. But their government...I’m indignant at the losses, the destruction caused by America’s war machine. They have their army on our land. There’s not a single Viet Namese soldier on American soil. Ah, Khat Doh, you must learn to read as well as to speak.”

“You’ve taught me to read.”

“No. I taught you to recognize printed words. Now you must learn to read...to expand your thoughts...to know what happens each day.”

“The Northerners forbid soldiers to read anything but what they provide. It’s even forbidden to listen to any radio but Hanoi Radio.”

“We’re not Northerners,” Bok said in Jarai. “We can get around that. I can tell you what President Nixon says in his speech. I can tell you if he promises strong measures, if the antiwar movement presses him with strong measures.”

“All our fighting does, eh?”

“That’s all you know because that’s all you’ve been told. I can get you newspapers.”

“Then why do you serve them?” Nang persisted.

Bok eyed him sharply. Should the question lead to a
kiem thao,
a criticism/self-criticism session? “I am devoted to peace. Real peace. Real freedom.” Bok paused. Nang’s eyes glazed with disbelief. “I fight to the end,” Bok continued more powerfully. “Viet Nam is indivisible. Seventeen million Northern compatriots live with tightened belts to help us defeat the invaders. It’s our duty to the Fatherland. Armed
dau tranh
, armed struggle, for the revolution is our supreme duty.”