Up Country

“You’re too young to retire.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “By your significant other?”

  “She’s very supportive of whatever I want to do.”

  “Does she work?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does she do?”

  “Same as what I did.”

  “Oh, so you met on the job?”

  “Right.”

  “Is she ready to retire?”

  I cleared my throat and said, “She’s younger than I am.”

  “Was she supportive of you going to Vietnam for this last assignment?”

  “Very. Can I get you another beer?”

  “I’m drinking wine. See the glass?”

  “Right. Wine.” I signaled the waitress and ordered another round.

  Susan said, “I hope you don’t think I’m prying.”

  “Why would I think that?”

  “I’m just trying to get an image of you, your life, where you live, what you do. Stuff like that.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. My favorite subject is usually me.” She thought a moment, then said, “Maybe you’re interesting because you’re not here on business.”

  “I am here on business.”

  “I mean, money business. There’s no money in this for you. You’re doing what you’re doing for some other reason. I mean, it’s not even because of your career. What is your motivation?”

  I thought about that and replied, “I honestly think I’m stupid.”

  “Maybe it’s a personal reason, something you’re doing for your country, but really for yourself.”

  “Have you considered a radio talk show? Good Morning, Expats.”

  “Be serious. I’m trying to help you. You need to know why you’re here, or you won’t be successful.”

  “You know, you’re probably right. I’ll think about that.”

  “You should.”

  To change the subject again, and because I needed some information, I asked her, “How good is your travel agent?”

  “Very good. She’s a Viet-Kieu—understands Americans and Vietnamese. Can-do attitude.” She added, “Bottom line, money talks.”

  “Good.”

  Susan reminded me, “But Colonel Mang might kick you out.”

  Maybe I had one beer too many, but I said to her, “What if I didn’t go to see Colonel Mang to find out? What if I just went up country? Would I be able to do that?”

  She stared directly into my eyes and said, “Even if you were able to get around the country without anyone asking for your passport or visa, you’ll never get out of this country without one. You know that.”

  I replied, “What I had in mind was going to the consulate first thing tomorrow and getting an emergency passport issued.”

  She shook her head and said, “They are not yet an official delegation and have no passport-issuing capabilities. That won’t happen for at least six months. So, if you don’t have a passport or a visa, or even photocopies, you won’t get far.”

  I replied, “If I get to the American embassy in Hanoi, it becomes their problem.”

  “Look, Paul, don’t compound the problem. See Colonel Mang tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Tell me about the Immigration Police. Who are these clowns?”

  “Well, their business is foreigners. The police in this country were organized by the KGB when the Russians were here, along KGB lines. There are six sections, A to F. Section A is the Security Police, like our CIA. Section B is the National Police, like our FBI, and Section C is the Immigration Police. Sections D, E, and F are respectively Municipal Police, Provincial Police, and Border and Port Police.” She added, “The Immigration Police usually just handle visa and passport violations, so I wouldn’t be too concerned about this.”

  “Right.” But I had the thought that Colonel Mang could be an A or B guy in C clothing. That was a fairly common ruse. The other thought I had was that Ms. Weber knew a lot about the Vietnamese fuzz, but maybe all expats had a handle on that.

  It was pushing 11 P.M., and I said, “I think I’ll call it a night. Got an early A.M.”

  I called for the check, but Susan insisted on paying for it with her company credit card, and I wasn’t going to argue with that.

  She wrote something on her copy of the charge slip and said, “Paul Brenner—company unknown—discussed fish cannery investment, dangerous missions, and life.” She smiled and put the slip in her little bag.

  We stood and went out in the street. I said, “I’ll walk you home.”

  “Thank you. Sort of on the way is one last place I want to show you. Just two blocks from here. We’ll have a nightcap, and you’ll be back to your hotel by midnight.”

  Famous last words. I said, “Fine.”

  “Unless you’d rather go to the Monkey Bar.”

  “I’d much rather have a nightcap with you.”

  “Good choice.”

  We walked a few blocks to a quiet street that wasn’t particularly well lit. At the end of the street was a big, illuminated building whose sign said Apocalypse Now. I thought I was seeing things, but Susan said, “That’s where we’re going. Have you heard of this place?”

  “I saw the movie. Actually, I lived the movie.”

  “Did you? I thought you were a cook.”

  “I guess I wasn’t a cook.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “Neither did Colonel Mang,” I said.

  “You told him that?”

  “Sounded better than combat infantryman. He may have gotten the idea I killed one of his relatives.”

  “Did you kill anyone?”

  I didn’t answer that, but said, “The army unit portrayed in that movie was the First Cavalry Division. My division.”

  “Really? I saw the movie. Helicopters, rockets, machine guns—Ride of the Valkyries. Unreal. That’s what you did?”

  “Yup. Don’t remember the Ride of the Valkyries, but sometimes they’d play cavalry charges from a helicopter on a loudspeaker.”

  “Weird.”

  “I think you had to be there.”

  We had arrived at the front door to a long, low yellow building in front of which were about twenty cyclo drivers, hanging around, smoking.

  I said to Susan, “Come here often?”

  She laughed. “Actually, no. Just when I have out-of-towners in. I brought my parents here. They were uncomfortably amused.”

  A Caucasian man opened the door, and we stepped into Apocalypse Now.

  The first thing I saw was a cloud of smoke, like someone had popped about a dozen smoke canisters to mark a landing zone in the jungle. But it was only cigarette smoke.

  The place was hopping, and a four-piece combo of Viets was playing Jimi Hendrix. Against the left side of the place was a wall of sandbags and barbed wire, like firebase chic. A big poster from the movie of the same name hung on a wall, and Susan said it was autographed by Martin Sheen, if I wanted to look. I didn’t.

  The overhead paddle fans were helicopter blades, and the light globes had red paint splattered on them to look, I guess, like blood.

  We went to the long bar against the back wall, which was packed with mostly middle-aged guys, black and white, and they definitely had the look of former military about them. I had this sense of déjà vu, Americans again on the prowl in Saigon.

  I got two bottles of San Miguel from the American bartender, who said to me, “Where you from, buddy?”

  “Australia.”

  “You sound like a Yank.”

  “I’m trying to fit in.”

  Susan and I sidled up to the bar and sucked up the suds. The place was absolutely fogged in with cigarette and cigar smoke, and Susan lit up. She said to me, “So, GI, you lonely tonight?”

  “I’m with someone.”

  “Yes? Where she go? She go away with general. She butterfly. I stay with you. Show you good time. I number one girl. Make you very happy.”

  I didn’t know whether to be amused or to fre
ak out. I said, “What’s a girl like you doing in a nice place like this?”

  She smiled and said, “Need money to go to Harvard.”

  I changed the subject and said, “This is the opposite of Cong World.”

  “It’s R&R World. Does this offend you?”

  “I think that anything that trivializes war is offensive.”

  “Want to leave?”

  “We’ll finish our beers.” I asked, “When does the shooting start?”

  But it wasn’t so easy to leave. There were four couples next to us, all middle-aged, and they struck up a conversation. The men were all former American air force officers, and they had their wives with them to show the ladies where they’d served and all that. They were okay people, and we chewed the fat awhile. They’d all been stationed up north at Da Nang, Chu Lai, and Hue”Phu Bai Airbase, and they’d bombed targets around the DMZ, and that was their ultimate destination. They asked me about my wartime service without asking me if I was a vet. I said, “First Cav, Quang Tri, ’68.”

  “No shit?” said one. “We blew the crap out of a lot of targets for you guys.”

  “I remember.”

  “You going up country?”

  “I think we’re already there,” I said.

  This got a big chuckle, and one of the guys said, “Is this place unreal, or what?”

  “It’s unreal,” I agreed.

  The wives didn’t seem overly interested in any of this war stuff for some reason, but when they learned that Susan lived in Saigon, they descended on her, and the five ladies talked shopping and restaurants, while the five guys, myself included, told war stories until the shell casings and bullshit were knee deep. They seemed fascinated about the life of an infantryman and wanted all the gory details.

  I obliged, partly because they bought me another beer, but also because this was part of their nostalgia trip, and I guess mine as well. I never get into this stuff at home, but here, in this place, and with a little buzz on, it seemed okay to talk about it.

  They told me about dodging surface-to-air missiles and anti-aircraft fire, and blowing the living shit out of everything that moved in the DMZ. They used empty beer bottles to demonstrate all of this, and I realized that these guys had totally removed any moral or ethical considerations from the stories, and saw aerial combat as nothing more than a series of technical and logistical problems that needed to be dealt with. I found myself caught up in these narratives of bombing and strafing, which was kind of scary. It doesn’t take much to stir the heart of old warriors, myself included. It was 1968 again.

  Midnight came and midnight went. The band was playing the Doors now, and my grip on reality and chronology was slipping.

  Now and then, when the band stopped for a few minutes, a loudspeaker would blast a cavalry charge, followed by Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries.”

  As far as theme bars went, this was right up there with Planet Hollywood.

  Somewhere in the conversation, we got around to places to see and where we’d already gone. I said to them, “You’ve got to get out to the Cu Chi tunnels.”

  “Yeah? What’s there?”

  “These really big tunnels, the size of train tunnels, where the VC had hospitals, dormitories, supply rooms, kitchens. You go in with electric golf carts. It’s a great tour, and you can have lunch and cocktails in one of the VC dining halls. I think they have ladies silk shops in there, too. The wives will love it.” Why do I do things like this?

  The guys made a note of it.

  The four airmen came to a belated realization that my First Cavalry Division and the First Cavalry Division in the movie and the theme bar were one and the same, and this called for another round of beers and more war stories.

  We ran out of ammunition, and one of the guys asked me, “Who’s the lady?”

  “What lady?”

  “The lady you’re with.”

  “Oh . . . just somebody I met last night. She lives here.”

  “Yeah. So she said. That’s some good-looking woman.”

  I’m never sure what to say when someone says that, but I said, “Your wives are very attractive.”

  They all agreed that their wives were wonderful and were saints to put up with them. I agreed with this, too, but they wanted to get back to Susan. One guy asked me, “You on top of that?”

  “We’re negotiating.”

  They all got a big laugh out of that, and that in turn led them to the subject of hookers. We all got a little closer for this conversation, and one guy said, “We’re trying to get them to go shopping on their own.”

  “The hookers?”

  “No. The wives. All we need is a few hours, but they won’t go by themselves. The city scares them.”

  “Get them a female English-speaking guide from the hotel.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I said. See, Phil? He agrees. Get them a guide, and we’re on our own.”

  I recommended the Monkey Bar. “Wall-to-wall whores—don’t pay more than five bucks for the prostitutes, but the waitresses and barmaids can be had for a few bucks more. Then take the wives to Maxim’s for a late dinner.”

  They hatched the plot right then and there and did high fives. I thought army guys were bad, but flyboys were worse. I remembered an old army joke and told it. I said, “What’s the difference between an air force pilot and a pig?”

  “What?”

  “A pig won’t stay up all night trying to fuck a pilot.”

  They roared. Good one. Were we having fun, or what?

  One o’clock came, and one o’clock went. I needed to take a leak, and I excused myself.

  I found the men’s room in a passage that led to another crowded room in the back. When I got out of the men’s room, Susan was waiting for me. She said, “There’s a garden in the back. It’s quiet, and I need some fresh air.”

  “Why don’t we leave?”

  “We will. I just want to sit down a minute.”

  Susan led me to an enclosed garden with little café tables that had candles on them. The garden was strung with paper lanterns, and it was quiet here, and the air smelled better.

  We sat at an empty table, and I looked around at couples holding hands. I guess this was sort of like post-Apocalypse, where you went after you died or something.

  I also noticed the smell of incense in the air, and the smell of cannabis burning. In fact, I saw little glowing fireflies dancing around the tables as the Js were passed, inhaled, and passed again. I had a sudden urge for a joint, something I hadn’t felt in twenty years.

  Susan said to me, “You seemed to be having fun.”

  “Good guys.”

  “The wives were nice, too. They wanted to know if we were a couple.”

  “Is that all women talk about? Sex, sex, sex.”

  “We weren’t talking about sex. We were talking about men.”

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “Do you want some tea?”

  “What kind of tea?”

  “Real tea. The other tea is BYO.”

  She called over a waitress and ordered tea.

  We sat there in the dark garden, and neither of us spoke. A pot of tea came with two little teacups, and I poured. I don’t even like tea.

  We sipped the hot, flavorless tea for a while. I inhaled the steam, and my lungs started working again.

  I was exhausted and even Susan yawned, but it was beyond the hour that would have mattered in regard to a good night’s sleep, so we sat there and sipped this horrible tea. After about ten minutes, I realized this was quite pleasant.

  Finally, Susan said, “You know what would make me happy?”

  “What?”

  “If you went home tomorrow.”

  For some reason, I told her, “It would make me happy if you went home.”

  This was a somewhat intimate exchange between two people who hadn’t yet been intimate. I said, “You need to get out of here before something happens to you . . . I mean mentally.” I heard myself saying, “
You’re worried about me, but I’m worried about you.”

  She stared at the flickering candle for a long time, and I saw tears running down her face, which surprised me.

  We were both a little drunk, and this moment wasn’t real, or even rational. With that in mind, I said softly, “When I was here . . . there was this story going around among the troops . . . the story of Gordon’s Kingdom. Gordon was supposed to be this Special Forces colonel, who went off into the jungle to organize a tribe of Montagnards to fight the VC, but Gordon went around the bend, went native, and got really messed up in the head . . . you know the story. It was a version of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, but somehow the story got transferred to Vietnam . . . this apocalyptic story that they made into this movie . . . but apocalyptic or not, it was a warning . . . a fear that we all had, that we would stop wanting to go home, that we would get really messed up in the head, and we couldn’t go home anymore . . . Susan?”

  She nodded and let the tears keep flowing.

  I gave her my handkerchief, and we sat there, listening to the night insects, and the muffled sound of sexy Janis Joplin from the bar, punctuated by “Ride of the Valkyries.” I couldn’t even guess at what caused her to weep.

  I held her hand, and we sat there awhile longer.

  Finally, she took a deep breath and said, “Sorry.” She stood. “It’s time to go.”

  We left Apocalypse Now and went out to the street. We got into a taxi, and I told the driver, “Dong Khoi.”

  Susan shook her head. “We need to go to the Rex.” She said something to the driver, and he pulled away.

  As the taxi moved through the streets, Susan said, “I get weepy when I drink too much. I’m okay now.”

  I said, “You must have Irish blood. My whole family and all my Boston friends get drunk, sing Danny Boy, and cry.”

  She laughed and blew her nose into my handkerchief.

  Within a few minutes, we were at my hotel. Susan and I got out, and she said, “Let’s check that message and see if there’s anything else.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll call you at home if there’s anything new.”

  “Let’s check.”

  So, we entered the hotel and went to the front desk. I got my room key and an envelope. The message inside, in barely readable English, said: You to meet Colonel Mang at Immigration Police headquarters, 0800, Monday. You to bring all travel documents and to bring travel itinerary.