For the Sake of All Living Things (76 page)

Then would follow the second eye of the storm, a lull after that most violent of firestorms—a firestorm of pure flame and arc-light combined.

The breaking of a nation’s will to resist is the final object in war....In international power politics, the willingness to accept challenge is far, far more important than physical capacity to wage war. Here we have failed. Currently, ally and enemy alike regard the United States as having lost its will to resist Communism in all other parts of the world with the exception of the United States. [Though we] have affirmed and re-affirmed our commitment...our actions do not follow our words.

—
Ernest Cuneo,

syndicated columnist,

April 1970

H
E STOOD IN OUDONG,
in his filthy stinking Caucasian skin, in his rotting fatigues, in his disgust, attempting, why he didn’t know, to control his exasperation and the volume of his voice. “Talk to the refugees,” he said. “We still don’t know what really happened. Talk to them.”

“Oh yes, Captain! We know.” The FANK liaison officer smiled broadly. “It is very good that you aren’t killed.”

“Damn it!” Sullivan could no longer control it. “There’s a proper system for this. There’s a way to get results. You can’t continue to fall headlong into these things without knowing what you’re hitting.” With Sullivan were a small group of frightened civilians, as filthy and emaciated as he from their months of hiding, trudging through backwater swamps, not knowing the front had evaporated, not knowing they could have safely emerged weeks earlier.

“Here”—the liaison officer’s smile pasted on his face infuriated Sullivan—“in Cambodia we have our own ways. My senior officer...”

“Let me talk to him.”

“Of course, Captain. You must clean up; have dinner with...”

“Damn it,” Sullivan barked. “Look!” He grabbed a map from a second rear staff officer. “Look, you’ve got to get to the heart of this. Your commander has a responsibility to more than the glory of command. He’s got people. He’s got...” Sullivan stopped. Ten feet to his right Rita Donaldson was snapping his photograph. “What the hell’re you doing?”

“Are you advising, Captain?” She laughed mockingly. “Phew! You’re a sight!”

“Only observing end use, Mrs. Donaldson.” Sullivan backed a step away from the Cambodian.

“Ms.”

“Hum?”

“Ms. Not Mrs., Captain. I think the photos will show you advising. You’ve been...”

“You got a real obsession with that, don’t you, lady?”

“Do you mean, I’m obsessed with following the letter and spirit of American laws?”

“God! For what, a month I’ve...” He curbed his speech.

“Yes, tell me. You were missing in action. General Cleland will be happy you’re back.”

“Back! I...” Again he curbed his tongue. “Who?”

“While you’ve been doing what you say you haven’t, MEDT had a command change. Cleland for Mataxis. Now...it’s John, isn’t it? May I call you John? Call me Rita.”

Sullivan sighed. He shook his head. “I...”

“Yes? Where have you been?”

“I’ve been watchin guys, the bravest soldiers I’ve ever known, stop an NVA charge. One guy...You bitch! I’ve been struggling to get back....Where the fuck do you think I’ve been? I watch this guy, Suong...poor fucker got greased...and you, Mrs. Donaldson! come up here one fucking hour after I get dragged from the fucking swamp and tell me I’m advising!”

“Photographs don’t lie, Captain.”

Stung Treng was symbolic. The Krahom had moved back, east, into KVM-NVA territory. The NVA had withdrawn its main force units to border sanctuaries and staging areas for duty yet farther east. The drain-off was at hand.

The Standing Committee of the Central Committee of the Kampuchean Communist-Party, the Center, infiltrated the city. Riding a wave of questionable victories they met secretly, not like animals in forest hovels but as winning commanders in conquered territory behind the new front, met in a modest wood and brick home overlooking rice fields that reached west to the Mekong. Met Sar welcomed each member. With him, smiling, her political demeanor as pleasant as the best of first ladies, Sar’s wife, Met Pon, also welcomed the party’s “old men.”

“You’ve lost weight.” Met Yon grasped Pon’s hands after passing the guards.

“A little.” Pon tilted her head slightly to one side. Her smile twitched involuntarily.

“As always you’re lovely,” Yon said. He himself was gray haired and frail. “Did China agree with you?”

“A, little yes”—Pon’s eyes fixed on the planner—“a little no. What weight I’ve lost, the Prince has gained.”

“Ha! He grows fat, yes?”

“More than ever.” Pon smiled.

Inside, the intensity of Sar’s, Met Phan’s and Met Dy’s informal talk was rising. “We’ve learned so much,” Yon heard Sar say.

Phan agreed. “When that terrifying, murderous force broke loose, our soldiers, just children, jumped into those flames, into those explosions. I”—the tactician tapped his chest—“taught many of them at Pong Pay. Ah, many died. Still their heroism saved the revolution for millions.”

Sar’s eyes flicked to the others as he spoke. “Their sacrifice makes my sense of life more acute. What greatness! What courage! The willingness to die for the future of others. Angkar must, forever, record their sacrifice.”

“And yet,” Met Dy said with bitterness, “there was the other. There was tragedy.” He turned slightly from Sar. Dy had lost a son in the Northern Corridor fighting. As the personnel chief of the Krahom, he felt as if he’d lost a thousand.

Sar seethed. “Tragedy is caused by disgraceful elements, by irresponsible allies.”

The Center’s January meeting was the most important meeting of the year. Security was tight. The entire Krahom leadership was assembled; the first planning session was attended only by the Center’s very core—the ideologues and the high generals. “They hold Kampuchea by fear, terror and ruthlessness.” There was disgust in Met Sar’s voice. “Kampuchea can be delivered only by greater terror, greater ruthlessness. Answer terror with terror, attack with attack.”

Politely Met Yon interrupted the general. “Our forces,” Yon said, “have taken magnificent steps, yet military advantage does not always fall to the successful. Until it does, the main thrust of our energies must be aimed at stimulating the internal contradictions of our enemies. Now it’s American hearts and minds...”

“It’s no longer a matter”—Met Phan shot the words at the frail Yon—“of anyone’s hearts and minds. Words are slow. We have the force.”

Met Yon rushed to change the subject. To Sar he said, “You met with the Prince, eh?”

“Meas”—Sar impatiently indicated the secretary-scribe—“has the record.”

Met Meas opened what looked like a great ledger. He recounted the formal meetings with Norodom Sihanouk and Penn Nouth. “In China,” Meas said, “there is the slogan ‘Revolution is Endless.’ Met Sar told the Prince, ‘In Kampuchea, revolution has just begun.’ ” Meas paused, glanced at Met Sar, continued. “Chairman Mao stated long ago, ‘War is the highest form of struggle for resolving contradictions.’ Met Phan told the Prince, ‘In Kampuchea, contradictions have just been broken into their elements. Now the dialectic process may surge forth.’ ” Meas closed the ledger, looked back to Sar.

“Meas”—Yon leaned forward—“I want to know more of Sihanouk. What does he do? What did he say about the battle in the Northern Corridor? About irresponsible allies?”

“We have his support,” Sar answered for Meas. “We’ve guaranteed him ours.”

“And the arms?”

“He’ll press the Chinese.” Sar turned to Phan.

“I told him,” Phan began, “the Viet Namese steal weapons destined for our armies.”

“What did he say?” Yon asked.

“He’s cognizant of yuon hypocrisy,” Sar said.

“All Khmers, I told him,” Phan continued, “need beware of the Viet desire for hegemony. He agrees. But he’s powerless. Without us.”

“It makes no difference,” Sar said, cutting the point short. “We have reached a critical moment. Perhaps, all our enemies can be defeated by destroying just one. That should be our focus, eh?”

“Who?” Meas said. “The Yankee aggressors? That traitorous Lon Nol-Sirik Matak clique? Those stinging red ants from North Viet Nam?”

Met Sar and Met Phan laughed. “For a year,” Sar said, “we’ve waited for Hanoi’s withdrawal. This is the greatest of opportunities. We’ve inherited what is justly ours.”

Phan added, “To achieve national unity we shall neutralize the propaganda of our enemies, divide those of the unliberated zones one against all and all against each other until there is confusion and no ability to withstand the Will of Angkar.”

Phan and Sar laughed again and, for a few moments, the meeting broke into paired talk. Then Met Dy addressed the group. “We reorganized the army,” he said. “We expanded our forces even while they were engaged in combat. Last quarter we lost four battalions in the Northern Corridor yet this past year’s gains have resulted in a great influx of yothea-trainees. In the northern zone alone, Met Koy notes in September he fielded five thousand fighters. Now his strength is doubled.”

“Reports from other zones are similar,” Phan said. “Along with FANK deserters, more and more recruits flee unliberated cities to join the Khmer Patriots.”

“Our territory has doubled,” Dy said. “We’ve expanded against Lon Nol and greatly against the yuon. Our population resource has increased sevenfold.”

Phan spoke again. “We were able to completely frustrate the NVA in all except the eastern and northeastern zones, and the Americans everywhere they attempted...”

“How?” Sar barked. “How have we used the Americans? Dialectics! American strength is down by four hundred thousand. Those troops once brought a false economic boom to South Viet Nam that seeped across our border. Now they’re going. In their wake is massive unemployment. Recession. Depression. Here too! As the economy worsens the lackey clique will be hard-pressed to satisfy its greed. Prices soar. FANK’s corrupt leaders steal more and more. Victims are our most vehement supporters. Organize the urban populations to prepare the way for our military advances!

“For a year we’ve denied the yuons a major city,” Sar continued. “Now we must deny them the ability to communicate their position to potential supporters. Stimulate yuon internal contradictions and isolate them from the people. Our military position must be strengthened. There’s where to use America. Assist the imperialists in destroying the yuons and assist the Viets in evicting the imperial running dogs. Public opinion is an objective factor which must be manipulated. America is vulnerable: Nixon promised the war would end. His people scrutinize his every word. Help the yuons force concessions. Be a sliver in the foot of the giant. Be a mosquito in his ear. Distract him while the wolves tear at his throat.

“But don’t publicly harm the North Viet Namese. We will beat them. Met Nang of Kompong Thom has shown all that they are not gods! But the world must witness our united front under that lackey Landless Johnny in China. Sihanouk! Bah!”

Sar stood. “Let the goal be two pronged. In prepared areas let the armies respond. In enclaves like Neak Luong and Battambang where the government still dupes the people, proceed with political offensives. As to the yuons, their flaws are our opportunities. They’re tied to preparation for a new offensive in the South. Can we eliminate that painful humiliation of COKA? FANK’s military weakness makes the republic vulnerable on the political front. Let our ideology control our actions. Our system is righteous and pure. Our strength grows. The Khmer people, all the world’s people, have become skeptical of Lon Nol and the morality of the imperialists.”

“You can go now,” Sullivan said.

“Yep. I kin go now,” Huntley answered. He hung his head. “You gonna be ah right, sir?”

“I’m okay, Ron.”

“Goddamn fuck, J. L....” Huntley lumbered over to his old team leader, grabbed him in a bear hug, squeezed him, then let go.

Sullivan returned the hug but without feeling, as if he needed to cap his emotions, as if, if he didn’t, they would break, run wild, explode. “You really got them to extend you until I got back?”

“Ah, weren’t nothin. I knew you’d make it. But I couldn’t go till I knew you’d made it.”

“Thanks, Ron.”

“Jus one other thing, J. L.”

“Yeah.”

“Mrs. Cahuom in Neak Luong...” Huntley paused. A flash of pain shot onto Sullivan’s face. “Naw. Nothin’ like that,” Huntley said, reading Sullivan. “I got word she knew you was missin’ and was real concerned. That’s all. Ya oughta take some time, go en see her.”

“Yeah. When, Ron? When?”

“Soon as you kin, J. L.”

“You’re going to miss your flight, Ron.”

“Yeah. I gotta git.”

“I’d take you if they’d let me out of here.”

“It’ll blow over.”

“Yeah.”

Huntley turned to leave, then turned back. Again he embraced Sullivan. This time Sullivan squeezed back. “I love ya, J. L.,” Huntley said. “Don’t get yerself KIAed. This war ain’t worth it. And, ah...J. L....you don’t gotta kill all the commies yerself.”

“You hold, within your bodies, within Angkar, infinite powers.” Sar paused. In the long center aisle of the warehouse, nearly a hundred top cadre and fighters of Angkar sat on makeshift pews of rosewood, mahogany, teak or ebony. They had come from all zones, though mostly from the north, northeast and east, a hand-picked elite subcore, representing their zonal army or party center apparatus. Some had been trained at Pong Pay, some at newer schools. Some were children, most were teenagers. Seven were secretly, unknown even to themselves, tapped for provisional membership in the Kampuchean Communist Party.

The themes of the general meeting rehashed the conclusions from the Center’s meeting: move with force against the KVM and NVA and seize their areas; move militarily against FANK to create ambiguity and doubt within government-controlled areas and within the minds of the republic’s chief sponsor; covertly increase Angkar’s propaganda and proselytizing in the enclaves to stimulate contradictions and weaken the people’s will to resist. But the crux of the meeting was not themes. This was Met Sar’s show, a moment for him to display his soft-spoken piety, his polished confidence. It was a stage to build his personal following, to solidify allegiance to Met Sar. In other meetings other elements—higher cadre, zone secretaries, zone commanders—would be the target audience. But in the Stung Treng warehouse the aim was to develop ties with those just beneath the zone leaders, to develop allegiances which could circumvent the chain of command when necessary.