The Man From Saigon (22 page)

He has not been back to the opium den since Susan’s disappearance, though the urge to visit is great now, at its height.

Now, in the taxi, with its peculiar smell, rolling slowly over a narrow bridge strung with white lights, he wishes tonight was a simple case of returning to the opium den, taking up the pipe, lying back on the pillows. He sees the bony arm of the pipe, the sticky black of the bowl. He sees Susan’s face in the amber flame of the lamp and the thought of her causes a sinking in his gut which anchors him in the taxi, flattening him, making him feel a tide of regrets, almost unendurable. He rolls down the window and the glass sticks in a familiar manner, sitting unevenly in the frame of the door. He realizes all at once that it is the exact same taxi in which they traveled together those weeks ago, that the seat beside him is exactly where Susan was. He looks for the tear in the seat, the eruption of foam, and finds a line of neat stitching.

He tells himself she is not dead. There has been no body and therefore no death. He tells himself he will see her again. But it is all he can do to stay in the cab. It is that feeling again, the need to escape, to flee, to take cover, the one that until recently only visited him upon waking from a dream. He raps on the window, tells the driver where to stop. He is meeting some people who might help get word to the Vietcong that she is politically neutral, that she is not a spy. He has spent the past twenty-four hours getting out cables, and now he is meeting with men who promise to personally bring word to the North Vietnamese embassies in Paris, in Britain. He has to keep himself together. He needs to get out of the taxi and walk, breathe slowly, drink a glass of water. In a satchel he wears over one shoulder is a photocopy of her passport, her British passport, with a photo in black and white. Also, copies of articles she’s written: about orphanages, hospitals, an accurate, short account of an ambush that went particularly well for the North Vietnamese—none of them in the least bit political. If anything, they show compassion for those whom the war has inadvertently affected, compassion for the Vietnamese people as a whole. He has met everyone who will see him, everyone he can think of who has connections in Hanoi. Czechoslovakians, Russians, Poles, Germans. He has written, or caused his friends to write, desperate articles describing who she is and articulating in the clearest terms possible that she is not a spy. Even tonight, he is traveling to meet more people. In the morning, he will go down to the Delta to the place where she was captured. All of this he does without any idea of whether it will do any good, and without any real help from the military.

The official word is that no search can be made for her.

He found out a week ago. He had been in Loc Ninh with the Special Forces. He watched a US artillery piece leveled at the
airstrip, burning metal showering the rubber trees to one side, the branches cracking, now on fire. They’d filmed the early, desperate attempts air support made, trying to zero in on an enemy artillery battery without using the airspace over nearby Cambodia. Then it became too dark to film. He watched through the glass of his binoculars as an American gunship platoon worked away at the enemy anti-aircraft guns, the sky bursting with color. He and Locke couldn’t get out because the fighting was all over the airstrip. He sat in a foxhole, feeling the water seep into his boots, the words he would write later already forming his thoughts. Beside him, Locke waited out the fight, his helmet on, the camera sleeping in its case. Occasionally he looked out, staring into the evening sky.

Marc said,
I can’t believe we aren’t getting any of this.

It wouldn’t look like anything.

For a long time the only successful air attacks were from helicopter gunships, flying in a formation that merged their lights, making it difficult for the enemy to see how many were there. He admired the pilots. It seemed remarkable to him that they continued to fight, continued and continued. In the A Shau Valley he’d seen helicopters knocked out of the sky arcade-style by enemy fire. They’d been unable to report the correct number because the information had been embargoed by MACV, which shocked him almost as much as the exploding helicopters. The story had not been completely killed, but they were told to fudge the number of downed choppers. Reduce it. The justification was that to do otherwise would aid the enemy’s awareness of the battle, and there was a caveat in all the press’s access to military events that they report nothing that might help the enemy. Even so, he would not lie. Instead, they did not give a number at all, but ran as much footage as possible, choppers rocking, spinning, flailing, falling. Let the people count them themselves—it didn’t matter. It looked like they’d been badly hit by the enemy, and they had.

Now, artillery rounds exploded somewhere on their side of the airstrip, the ground shaking. The enemy was down to only two guns. Two guns, then one. It was a beautiful attrition and MACV would surely have liked this to be filmed, but they couldn’t do it in the dark. More planes arrived and the napalm began, the cluster bombs, explosions tearing through the trees, shattering the rubber plantation, the enemy’s guns destroyed.

That was impressive
, Marc said. He slipped a cigarette from a plastic case.

Too bad we didn’t get five fucking seconds
, said Locke.

He went to sleep with a joint on his lips, held by a paper clip twisted around one end. He had several small burn scars on his lower lip from this practice, but it worked to put him under. He woke the next day in the same clothes, and in the same position in which he’d fallen asleep. He shook Locke awake, stuck an unlit cigarette in his mouth, slapped a pack of matches on his chest, and said,
It’s morning.

It was early yet, the air still cool. He went outside. The streets were muddy, rutted by tank tracks and tire wheels, but it was quiet, almost peaceful.

For the first time in three days, they were able to get into Loc Ninh itself. He stood in what had been the police post, daylight where the roof had been, wreckage all over the floor, so many papers it might have been a ticker-tape parade. No blood, no bodies, the place had been abandoned long before it was struck. Outside was a burnt-out truck that looked like the enormous dead husk of an insect. Locke appeared, his camera on his shoulder. He stood outside, focusing the camera through what had been a wall, filming the police post, the broken plaster, the shattered table, the debris on the floor.

You think we can scrounge coffee?
he said.

In the distance they could hear a few rifle shots, occasional shouting. They moved to the market, what had been the market. The place was deserted, all the buildings burnt—the government
buildings, infirmary, post office—leveled entirely or else smashed so that you could see through them one side to the other. There were piles of rubbish, pieces of thatch and cooking pots, twisted metal, great sheaves of bamboo, piles of filthy clothes, papers, a chair back, a plastic tub. Everything burning or smoldering. Locke got a few establishing shots, then Marc stood between piles of burning rubble and spoke into the lens.
After three days of unrelieved fighting, US Special Forces have successfully taken back Loc Ninh. But the provincial capital has suffered five solid days of violence. Its buildings are shattered, its people gone.

What was left of the city was defended by the soldiers, who guarded the streets, rifles in hand. Some stood around smoking and drinking beer. No civilians. What few people he saw seemed to be gathering their remaining possessions together, then heading down the road. From the air he’d be able to see a long line of them, families clustering together, their clothes in roped parcels, their food in wheelbarrows and wagons or carried on their backs.

They did some on-camera interviews.

We were surprised
, said one sergeant.
It took longer than we thought to clear the city.

A private said,
They just kept coming and coming. We’d shoot ’em, and they’d still keep coming! Hey, when will this air?

A couple of days
, Marc told him. He checked his volume levels, scraped a dead insect off the microphone stem.
You never know.

The guys wished it were longer so they’d have time to tell their families. It took eight or more days to get a letter back home.

A couple of GIs claimed the Vietcong were drugged up, high on some kind of suicide drug that made them keep moving no matter how many bullets they put into them.

It’s like they didn’t notice
, one said.

It made for a dramatic piece, the tattered, blackened buildings smoking behind them, the deserted streets, the occasional
rat-a-tat-tat
of machine-gun fire, now this talk about a suicide drug. But he signaled Locke to turn off the camera. Locke looked back at him like he was crazy, but he switched it off.

What drug do you think it might be?
Marc asked. No mike, just the question.

I don’t know, man—heroin?

No, really
, Marc said.
Seriously

Heroin, like I said. That’d do it.

Someone found some white powder
, said another.

It’s not heroin
, Marc said.

Then what is it?
one asked.

The powder?
He smiled.
Washing powder? Soap? Rice flour? Something to brush your teeth with, maybe?

Heroin, man.

Or some other shit. Is this getting on TV?

They were running straight into our guns. It was like they didn’t care.

He took a Camel out of its crushed packet, unbent the end, offered the pack around.
Oh, I think they care
, he said. He scared up a flame on his lighter, pulled on his cigarette.
I think they care a great deal.

There was a pause. The soldiers looked at each other. They were good soldiers; they’d been fighting solidly for days and they would have continued to fight, if needed.

It’s their country
, said Marc now. Then he walked away. He turned once and waved, smiling weakly at the soldiers, who he realized now he had not treated as he had meant to. They deserved more respect than he’d shown, but there would have been something deceitful in allowing them to believe a drug was influencing the Vietcong. Enough nonsense was given to them without that, too. The way they were sent out under orders that were often ill conceived, the way they were never
told what was really going on. How many times had he sat with soldiers just like these, explaining what was happening elsewhere, correcting their notions of territory gained, of body counts, all sorts of information they were not being told in their truncated briefings?
Thanks for getting us out of here alive
, he told them.

He found Locke filming some ARVN soldiers loading up a bunch of ducks they were pilfering. When the soldiers discovered they were being filmed, they abandoned their cheerful faces to appear grim and serious for the camera. Not an easy thing to do when your hands are full of feathers.

Marc made a face, then, mimicking himself on TV, he said,
Here in the district capital, soldiers from the Army of South Vietnam detain ducks
—

Locke smiled.
I had some battery left.

This war isn’t just about defeating the enemy. It’s also about poultry. Specifically about which side gets the ducks.

Damned straight it is.

They got a lift back to Saigon on a Chinook, sitting in the dim light on the two long benches that ran the length of the fuselage, covering their ears as the unwieldy chopper, listing one way then another over the broken tarmac, passing above a C-130 that lay shot-up on the runway. The roaring engines drummed in Marc’s ears. He stood up to look out of the portholes above him. He watched the runway disappear, the Special Forces camp, the abandoned city once inhabited by seven thousand people, many of whom were heading south along the highway. The artillery piece the Vietcong blew up was still in fragments at the end of the runway; F-100s were dive-bombing positions just west of the city. He watched all this amid the crushing noise of the Chinook and the volume of sound had the bizarre effect of making it feel as though he were watching it in silence, scanning this piece of Vietnam as though from a great distance, not part of it, not really there at all.

They arrived back in time for the five o’clock briefing in which the American military was claiming a total victory in Loc Dinh, one that pointed to future victories, ultimately, to the end of the war. Nobody mentioned that the city had been held for days by the Vietcong, nor that its inhabitants had all abandoned it now.

Marc had not changed his clothes, not even his boots. Locke, the same. They had a rich, greenhouse smell to them along with all the sweat. Their boots were muddy, their hair unkempt. All around, the press wrote down what was being reported by the officer up front. There had been others there with him at Loc Ninh, of course, and they would have their own stories, but there hadn’t been many, and the dozens of reporters here were diligently taking notes on what was being said in this room, right now. He wanted to stand up and scream.

Instead, he asked a question.
How many people were forced to evacuate before the city was captured by the Vietcong?

The officer, a major, stood stiffly at the center of the platform, his uniform starched, his face scrubbed. A handsome man, standing squarely in front of them all. He was smiling.
The city wasn’t captured
, he said politely.
Check your facts.

It was there in his steno pad, but he didn’t need to look.
During the period between October 29 and November 1
, he continued.

Again, the major smiled.
The city was not held by enemy forces.

Sir, we witnessed many of the city’s inhabitants leaving. I am asking if the US military has some idea of the number of refugees. Five thousand? Six thousand? How many homeless are there tonight because the city was destroyed during enemy occupation? Sir? Sir?