I looked at Mr. Cam and saw he was upset. Susan, too, seemed disturbed by Mr. Cam’s story. My own memories of that time were starting to fill my head.
When you begin a journey like this, you have to expect the worst, and you won’t be disappointed.
We continued on along the black highway, through the night, and back in time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
We had come about three hundred kilometers from Nha Trang, and it was close to 10 P.M. I was keeping the speed down to conserve fuel, and we weren’t in any particular hurry, anyway. I looked at the fuel gauge, and the needle was hovering around a quarter full.
I asked her, “How far to Da Nang?”
She’d already figured it out and said, “About a hundred fifty kilometers. How’s the fuel?”
“We burned some fuel back there running the fuzz. We may be able to reach Da Nang with the extra ten liters. Or maybe we’ll see an all-night station on the way.”
“In the last three hundred kilometers, we’ve passed only four gas stations, all closed.”
“Don’t we pass through Quang Ngai?”
“Yes. It’s right on Highway One. Provincial capital. It’s about seventy-five kilometers from here.”
“Take out my guidebook and see if they mention a gas station.”
She opened the guidebook and said, “Well, there’s a small map of the town . . . there’s a hotel, a pagoda, a church, a post office, a place called Rice Restaurant Thirty-four, a bus station—”
“These cars can run on rice.”
“I hope so. This map doesn’t show a gas station. But there has to be a few in a town that size. Maybe one is open. If not,” she added, “there’s one more town after Quang Ngai and before Da Nang that we may be able to make. It’s called Hoi An, an old Chinese seaport. Very touristy and charming. I took a trip there the time I was in Hue. There are a lot of accommodations in Hoi An, and maybe a gas station that will be open late. We may be able to make it that far. There’s nothing between Hoi An and Da Nang.”
“Okay. Let’s see how it goes.”
Mr. Cam figured out that we were discussing fuel, and he said something to Susan.
She said to me, “Mr. Cam, who is now our friend, said that we can sometimes buy gasoline from private vendors. He says they sell it in stalls along the road. We should look for a painted sign that says et-xang, which means gasoline.”
“And they’re open all night?”
“Sort of. You go to the house near the sign, and they’ll sell you gasoline. I’ve done that on my motorcycle. The gasoline is usually sold in soft drink bottles, and it’s expensive.”
“How many Coke bottles do we need to fill a tank?”
“I don’t have my calculator. Look for a sign that says et-xang.”
I said to Susan, “Tell me again why Mr. Cam won’t do his civic duty and go to the police. Make believe Mr. Cam’s life depends on your answer.”
She stayed silent for some time, then replied, “I couldn’t even translate the concept of civic duty. If he gets his car back and about a hundred bucks for himself, two for Mr. Thuc, and a few hundred to fix the damage, he is not going to the police. When there’s an accident in Saigon, the last thing they want is for the police to show up.”
“Good. Case closed.”
Mr. Cam wanted a cigarette, and he deserved it. Susan lit it for him and held it while he puffed away.
We came to a place called Sa Huynh, a picturesque village on the coast surrounded by salt marshes. Before you could say “quaint,” we were out in the country again.
We continued on, and the highway swung inland through an area of small villages and rice paddies.
I glanced at my fuel gauge and saw that it was below a quarter of a tank. The road was flat, and I was keeping the speed down to eighty KPH, so I figured I’d be able to squeeze out enough fuel to reach Quang Ngai. If not, we had twenty liters in the gas cans.
I had not seen a single sign that showed distances between cities, or even a sign that showed the name of a city. We were doing this all by map. The road itself was alternately good and terrible, mostly terrible. This place had a long way to go, but in fairness, after thirty years of war, they’d come a long way.
Susan said, “We should be approaching Quang Ngai. It’s on this side of the Tra Khuc River, and Highway One becomes the main street. Maybe we shouldn’t try to get through the town at this hour. And even if we found an open station, you’d have to change places with Mr. Cam.”
“So, what’s your suggestion?”
“I suggest we pull the car into some trees and wait until dawn. We can go into Quang Ngai in the morning and fill up.”
“All right. Look for a place to pull over.”
I slowed down, and we looked for a place where the car would be out of sight.
We were only a few kilometers from Quang Ngai, and I could see the lights of the town on the horizon. It was amazing, I thought, how distinct the towns were from the surrounding countryside, with no urban or suburban sprawl, no shopping malls, and obviously no gas stations. On the plus side, I hadn’t seen a cop on the highway since we started, except the two I ran into a ditch. But according to Susan, the military patrolled the highway after dark, and if there was one single military vehicle on the road, and one civilian car—this one—we’d be pulled over for no reason. The ace in the hole, of course, was the Colt .45. They wouldn’t expect that.
Quang Ngai was right up the road, about a kilometer, but I didn’t see any place to pull over. It was mostly rice paddies and villages, and the land was open, except for small stands of palm trees which didn’t offer any concealment.
I spotted a rise of land in the middle of a rice paddy that was connected to the highway by a dirt causeway or dike. I knew what this was, but it took a few seconds before it came to me. I said, “That’s a burial mound over there. We can park on the far side of it, and no one will see us.”
I slowed down and cut the wheels onto the dirt causeway that ran through the flooded rice paddies.
All of a sudden, Mr. Cam started going nuts. “What’s his problem?”
“He says that’s a burial mound.”
“I know what it is. We used to dig our night positions into burial mounds. Soft earth, good elevation, fields of fire—”
“He wants to know why you’re driving to the burial mound. You should stop.”
I stopped halfway to the big mound, and Mr. Cam calmed down. “What’s he saying?”
Susan spoke to him, and he got agitated again. She said to me, “I told him we were going to spend the night there. He’s not too thrilled about that.”
“Come on. They’re all dead. Tell him we’ll be very respectful, and we’ll pray all night.”
“Paul, he won’t spend the night on a burial mound. You’d have to hogtie him. They’re very superstitious, and it’s also disrespectful.”
“I’m not superstitious or culturally sensitive.”
“Paul.”
“Okay.” I threw the Nissan into reverse and backed it down the narrow dirt dike. I got on the highway, threw the car into gear, and we continued on. As soon as you do something nice, your luck runs out.
And sure enough, coming up the highway toward us was a pair of headlights, about a kilometer away. I killed my headlights and slowed down. The oncoming lights were too low to the ground to be a truck or bus, so it had to be something smaller, like a four-wheel drive, probably a military patrol.
Susan said, “Paul, pull off the road.”
“I know.” I put the Nissan in four-wheel drive and drove down the raised road embankment. There was no drainage ditch because the rice paddy was right at the bottom of the embankment. I drove parallel to the road with my right wheels in the rice paddy muck, and my left wheels on the side of the embankment. We were at a forty-five degree angle, maybe more, and I was concerned that the Nissan might flip. My rear wheels were starting to slip and sink into the muck. I stopped.
I looked up at the road an
d saw that I wasn’t really out of sight. But it was dark enough to hope for the best, while preparing for the worst. I said to Susan, “Give me the tote bag.”
I could hear the vehicle approaching now and saw the head beams coming closer.
She passed the bag to me, and I put my hand inside and found the pistol grip. I didn’t want Mr. Cam to see the gun because that could be the thing that sent him to the police.
I could feel the end of the magazine seated in the pistol grip. I clicked off the safety. I asked Susan, “Magazine fully loaded?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a round chambered?”
“No.”
“Extra magazines?”
“Two.” She added, “I’m frightened.”
I looked at Mr. Cam, who seemed apprehensive. I had the impression he was rehearsing his story for the authorities, and was glad he was tied up.
Within a few seconds, I could see the top of the vehicle as it approached. It was a big enclosed jeep-like vehicle, painted dark, not yellow, and I recognized it as military. I saw the driver, who was concentrating on the road, and a man in the rear.
The Nissan’s roof was about level with the raised highway, it was painted dark blue, it was a dark night, and the gods were with us. The military vehicle kept going.
We sat there for what seemed like a long time, then I put the Nissan into reverse, the rear wheels caught, and the Nissan backed up the embankment.
I sat on the road for a few seconds with the headlights still off and looked around. It was so dark I could barely see ten yards in any direction.
I began moving forward again without lights toward Quang Ngai. The glow from the town silhouetted some buildings on both sides of the road, and I saw something that looked promising. I pointed the Nissan toward the silhouette, stopped, and snapped on the headlights.
There on the right, at the end of a dirt trail, was a ruined structure without a roof. I hoped it wasn’t a Buddhist temple or we’d have another problem with Mr. Cam.
I drove slowly onto the dirt path that cut through the rice paddies, and I pulled up to the front of the white stucco structure. On the front peak, I could see the remains of what had been a church belfry. I said to Susan, “Catholic church. I hope this guy isn’t also Catholic.”
She said something to Mr. Cam, and he nodded.
I drove through the wide doorway and into the church, then cut the wheels and backed the Nissan into the front corner of the church so it couldn’t be seen from the road.
The headlights illuminated what was basically just a shell of a building with vegetation growing through the rubble-strewn concrete floor.
I killed the lights and the engine, and said, “Well, this is it for the night.”
We all got out and stretched, except that Mr. Cam couldn’t stretch his arms very well, so I untied him.
Susan got the water and the snacks out of the car, and we had a terrible dinner. I asked her, “Didn’t they have Ring Dings or cheese crackers in that gas station? What is this stuff ?”
“I don’t know. Candy. Stop complaining. In fact, you should say grace.”
Mr. Cam ate more than his share of the stuff in the cellophane bags, and he drank a whole liter of water by himself.
I had no choice but to tie him up again, so I bound his thumbs behind his back, took his sandals, and put him in the rear of the Nissan, where he lay down on the seat.
Susan and I sat cross-legged in the corner opposite the Nissan. The only illumination came from the starlight into the roofless building. She observed, “It must have been a nice country church once.”
“These were all over when I was here—ruined churches and pagodas. They were the only substantial buildings around, and civilians and military used to take cover in them. You’d be safe from small arms fire, but not rockets or mortars.”
She said, “It’s hard to imagine a war raging around you every day. I’m glad you were able to talk about it back there in Bong Son.”
I didn’t reply.
She took out her cigarettes and very expertly cupped the lighter and lit up quickly, just like an old combat soldier. She shielded the cigarette in her hands as she smoked. She said, “I’m cold. Can I borrow something from your suitcase?”
“Sure. I’ll get it.”
“Bring my backpack, too.” I stood and went to the Nissan. I opened the hatch door and got my blue blazer out of my suitcase, and took her backpack. I put my blazer over her shoulders.
She said, “Thank you. Aren’t you cold?”
“It’s about seventy degrees.”
Susan had a travel alarm clock in her backpack, and she set it to go off at midnight. She said, “We’ll set it every hour, so if we both drift off, this should wake us up.”
“Okay. I’ll take the first watch. Try to get some sleep.”
She lay down on the concrete floor with her backpack for a pillow.
We talked awhile, then I realized she’d drifted off.
I took the Colt .45 out of her tote and chambered a round. I put the pistol in my lap.
The alarm rang at midnight, and I shut it off before it woke her. I set it again for one A.M., in case I drifted. But, oddly, I had no trouble staying awake, and I let her sleep until 4 A.M.
We switched places, and I gave her the pistol.
I lay my head on her backpack and remembered when my own backpack had been my pillow for a year, and my rifle had been my sleeping partner. We always slept fully clothed, with our boots on, swatting mosquitoes all night, worrying about snakes and about Charlie. We were dirty, miserable, sometimes wet, sometimes cold, sometimes hot, and always frightened.
This wasn’t the worst night I’d ever spent in Vietnam; far from it. But I couldn’t blame this one on anyone but myself.
The sky lightened, bringing a false dawn, which was common to the tropics, then an hour later, the real dawn broke, and a rooster crowed. A stream of sunlight came in through a small arched window to the right of where the altar had once been. A shard of blue glass, still stuck in the window frame, cast a streak of blue light across the floor and up the opposite wall.
I sat up, and Susan and I watched the dawn unfold.
The interior of the small church was clearly visible now, and I could see the whitewashed walls and the crumbling stucco, and the places where the bullets had hit, and where exploding shrapnel had scarred a faded fresco of the Virgin Mary.
There wasn’t a single scrap of wood left in the structure, except the charred remains of a fire that someone had lit on the floor where the altar once sat.
The rice paddies don’t attract many birds, but I heard a lone bird singing somewhere. Then I heard the first vehicle on the road.
Susan said, “Today is Lunar New Year’s Eve.” She took my hand. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see a sunrise in my life.”
I could hear a truck on the road and a motor scooter. I glanced out through the open doorway and saw a farm cart and two girls on bicycles.
I remembered when the first vehicles on the road were minesweepers, tanks that could safely set off explosive devices buried in the potholes during the night. Then would come the Jeeps and trucks filled with American and Vietnamese soldiers, rifles and machine guns ready to take on any ambush that had been set in place during the night.
Then came the civilians, on foot, in ox carts, on bicycles, off to the fields, or to school, or wherever.
Within an hour of sunrise, Highway One would be open, piece by piece, from the Mekong Delta to the DMZ, and life would go on until the sun set.
I said to Susan, “Highway One is open to Hue.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
In the daylight, I could see that the driver’s side of the Nissan had picked up some yellow paint from my contact with the police jeep. Susan and I each had Swiss army knives, and we scraped the paint off, while Mr. Cam, who I’d untied, used a shard of glass to help.
I cut our plastic water bottles in half and collected some rice padd
y muck outside, which we smeared along the scrapes.
In the muck, we found a few bloodsucking leeches. Susan was repulsed by the leeches, Mr. Cam didn’t seem to care, and I had some unpleasant memories.
She looked at a big, fat leech in the muck of the plastic water bottle. “Do they bite?”
“They attach themselves to your skin somewhere. They have a natural anesthetic in their saliva, so you don’t know you’ve gotten bitten. Also in the saliva is a blood thinner, so your blood just keeps flowing into these things while they suck. You can have them on you all day and not know it, unless you do periodic checks. I had one under my armpit once that got so fat and bloated with my blood that I accidentally squashed it when I lay down on my side to take a break.”
Susan made a face.
After I’d returned from Vietnam, I’d probably told more leech stories than combat stories. These stories never failed to gross out people, and I got really good at it.
We used one of my polo shirts to wipe our hands.
I let Mr. Cam drive, and this made him happier than having his thumbs tied together. I sat in the front and Susan in the rear. We pulled out of the church and onto Highway One. A few people on bicycles and motor scooters looked at us, but by all appearances, we were two Western tourists with a Vietnamese driver, who had pulled over to check out a war ruin or make a pit stop.
Within a few minutes, we were in the provincial capital of Quang Ngai. I kept a close eye on Mr. Cam, and Susan was engaging him in conversation. He seemed okay, but Susan said, “He wants something to eat, and he wants to telephone his family.”
“He can do whatever he wants after he drops us off at Hue”Phu Bai Airport.”
Susan relayed this to him, and he seemed quietly unhappy.
Quang Ngai was nothing to write home about. It was, in fact, an ugly town, but I spotted a beautiful gas station.
We pulled over, and I said to Susan, “You pump. I’ll keep Mr. Cam company.”
Susan got out and pumped gasoline. A few people hanging around the gas station watched her pumping while Mr. Cam and I sat in the front. They probably concluded that Western men had their women better trained than the Vietnamese men did. They should only know.