Susan paid the guy, who had been standing near her, and the guy seemed very curious about us and the Nissan. He even drew Susan’s attention to the scrape marks and the dent. Susan pretended she spoke no Vietnamese.
I looked at Mr. Cam. If he was going to make a break for it, this was his best shot.
The pump attendant said something to Mr. Cam, who replied, and they exchanged another few words.
Susan got in the car and said to Mr. Cam, “Cu di.”
Mr. Cam started the engine and threw the car into gear.
I asked Susan, “What did he and the guy say?”
Susan replied, “The guy noticed the Nha Trang license plates and asked if we’d driven through the night. Mr. Cam said no, then the guy asked him where we’d stayed last night, and Mr. Cam didn’t have an answer. It was just polite conversation, but it didn’t go well.”
I said, “Well, no one calls the police about anything here. Right?”
Susan didn’t reply.
We passed through the rest of the ugly town and crossed the Tra Khuc River via a bridge that looked like it had been the prize in a game between Viet Cong sappers and the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. In the end, it looked as though the engineers had narrowly won.
We were in the open country again, and Highway One was now crowded with motor vehicles, ox carts, bicycles, scooters, and pedestrians. We were barely making fifty KPH, and I could see how the drive from Nha Trang to Hue could take eleven or twelve hours during the day.
I looked at the map and saw an asterisk north of Quang Ngai, which meant a point of interest. The point of interest, which was only a few kilometers from here, was described in Vietnamese and in English. It said: My Lai Massacre. It went on to say: War crime occurred here, March 16, 1968, when three U.S. infantry companies killed several hundred unarmed villagers. A memorial commemorates the dead and reminds one of the insanity and tragedy of war.
I said to myself, “Amen.”
We approached a small road that had a hand-painted sign with an arrow that read in English My Lai Massacre.
As I said, I hadn’t seen any helpful road signs so far, so I had to wonder who put up that one and why. I wondered, too, if any of the surviving three hundred American soldiers who had been there had ever come back.
I looked at the terrain. There were long stretches of rice paddies and small villages clustered on pieces of high ground, shaded with palm trees, and surrounded by growths of towering bamboo. This was typical of what I recalled when I thought of Vietnam, though I’d also operated in much more rugged terrain, away from the coastal populations, which I preferred.
When the war was in the jungles and the highlands, it had a better feel to it, a sort of boys’ adventure, the ultimate rite of passage. In the hills and the jungles, you didn’t kill civilians by mistake or on purpose, as at My Lai, and there were no villages to burn, or water buffalo to shoot. The boys seemed more focused and intent in the quiet presence of the primeval jungle and the highland forests; it was just us and them in the greatest game of survival ever conceived or carried out. The war had clarity, and the kills were clean, and there were no women or children dying around you, and no My Lais.
We passed into the province of Quang Nam, and approached the once huge American air force base at Chu Lai. This, I recalled, was where some of my air force friends from Apocalypse Now had been stationed.
I saw strands of rusted barbed wire from the old base, then abandoned concrete buildings. I saw a few hangars and dozens of concrete aircraft revetments built in the white sands that stretched to the east down to the sea. I could also make out a runway, covered with white objects that I couldn’t identify.
Susan saw me looking and said, “The farmers use the old runways to dry manioc root.”
“Really? You mean that millions of U.S. tax dollars were spent to build jet fighter runways that are now used to dry manioc roots?”
“Looks that way. Swords into ploughshares. Runways into—”
“What the hell is manioc?”
“You know. Like cassava. You make tapioca pudding out of it.”
“I hate tapioca. My mother force-fed it to me. Call an air strike on that runway.”
Susan laughed, and Mr. Cam smiled. He liked happy passengers.
I said, “I’d love to be here when those jet jockeys from Apocalypse Now get up to Chu Lai. They’ll have a fit.”
The Chu Lai base was big and sprawling, and we kept passing pieces of it. I saw kids pulling wagons through the area, and I asked Susan, “What are they doing?”
“They’re scrap metal scavengers. It used to be a huge business in Vietnam, but most of the easy stuff has been found.” She added, “A lot of the stuff blew up in their faces. There were hundreds of scavengers killed and maimed every year, according to what I’ve heard. Now, the pickings are slimmer, but safer.”
I watched the kids digging in the sand. After thirty years of war, and nearly thirty years of peace and recovery, this nation still had scars and unhealed wounds that continued to bleed. Maybe that’s what we had in common with them.
Susan said, “When or if you go into the interior, be advised that a lot of the unexploded stuff is still lying around.”
“Thank you.” In truth, even during the war, there was so much unexploded stuff around that you had just as much chance of being blown up by your own duds as by their booby traps.
I looked at Mr. Cam, who had obviously not had a good night’s sleep. He was starting to nod a bit, and I shook his shoulder. I asked him, “Do you know that twenty-five percent of U.S. auto fatalities are caused by fatigued drivers?”
“Eh?”
Susan translated something, but not quite what I said. She said to me, “He wants some coffee.”
“Next Burger King, we’ll stop.”
She said something to Mr. Cam, and I didn’t hear the words Burger King.
The coast curved inland now, and the highway passed over several small bridges that spanned creeks and streams, which ran down from the hills into the sea. It really was a beautiful country, and I appreciated it more now than I did when I had to walk it seven days a week.
Susan said, “This area was the center of the Champa civilization. Did you see Cham Towers when you were here?”
“Actually, I did, though I didn’t know what they were. We used them as watchtowers or artillery spotting towers. I saw everything through the eyes of a soldier. I’m glad I came back. I’m glad you’re with me.”
“That’s very sweet. Don’t forget you said that.”
We drove awhile, and I looked at the map. I said, “According to the map, Highway One runs far to the west of Da Nang, so we don’t have to go through the city.”
“Didn’t you say you left Vietnam from Da Nang?”
“Yes. November 3, 1968. Caught a helicopter from Quang Tri to my base camp at An Khe and collected the stuff in my trunk, which I hadn’t seen since my R&R, got all my paperwork in order, saw the pecker checker about VD, said good-bye to a few people, and di di mau’ed the hell out of there. Caught a big Chinook chopper to Da Nang. We drew fire someplace over the highlands. I mean, I had less than seventy-two hours left in-country, and these bastards are trying to kill me on the way to Da Nang. But aside from a few holes in the chopper, we made it. Then, while I’m in the transit barracks waiting for my flight home, the next day, at about three in the morning, Charles lobs in a few mortar rounds on the going-home barracks.” I added, “He did it on purpose.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“The empty mess hall next door got blown up, and some shrapnel flew through the barracks. I got knocked out of my upper bunk bed and sustained yet another head injury. But no one noticed, and I caught my flight to San Francisco.”
“I’ll bet you were happy to be going home.”
I didn’t reply for a while, then said, “I was . . . but . . . I thought about staying with my company . . . everyone who left had mixed feelings about leaving their friends . . . it was weird, and it
stayed with me for months . . . it wasn’t a death wish, it was a mixture of emotions, including the thought that I wasn’t going to fit in among normal people. It’s hard to explain, but nearly everyone who’s been to war will tell you the same thing.”
She didn’t reply.
We continued in silence awhile, then we crossed a bridge that spanned the Cam Le River, and I said to Susan, “Ask Mr. Cam if the Cam Le River is named after him.”
She said to me, “There aren’t that many words in Vietnamese, Paul, and fewer proper names, so you’ll see a lot of names and words appearing with great frequency. Try not to be confused, and no, the river was not named after Mr. Cam.”
Mr. Cam knew we were talking about him, and kept looking over his shoulder at Susan. Susan put her hand on his shoulder and said something. He laughed.
I guess he got over being kidnapped, almost killed in a high-speed chase, being tied up, sleeping out in the cold, and being threatened with death. Or, maybe he was smiling because he was thinking about his tip. Or maybe his revenge. The unhappy truth is, if Susan hadn’t been with me, I’d have had no choice but to kill Mr. Cam. Well, of course I had a choice, but the right choice was to get rid of him. And yet, deep inside of me, I knew I’d killed too many Vietnamese, including the two cops, and the thought of killing yet another made my stomach knot up. But if I believed that what I was doing here was important and right, then just like in 1968, when I believed the same bullshit, I’d do what I had to do for God, for country, and for Paul Brenner.
The Da Nang airport was off in the distance to our right, and beyond the airport, I could see the low skyline of the big city.
The airport, I recalled, was bigger and better than Tan Son Nhat because the Americans had built it from scratch. Now, according to my map, it was designated as an international airport. I said to Susan, “You could dry a lot of manioc on those runways.”
“It’s a major civilian and military field. In a few years, you’ll be able to fly to the States from there.”
“How about right now?”
“There are already American cargo planes making the run once in a while.”
Actually, I knew this. This was escape Plan C, according to Mr. Conway. Paul Brenner in an air shipment container labeled bananas or something. Might work. Might not.
She got her camera out and took a picture of the airport in the distance. She said, “A souvenir for you. And no one is trying to kill you this . . . well . . . you know what I mean.”
“Right.”
“I fly up here once in a while on business. Did you say you never got to China Beach?”
“Nope.”
“Monkey Mountain?”
“Hate monkeys.”
“I guess you weren’t here too long.”
“I was here for exactly seventy-one hours and ten minutes. And I never stepped foot out of the airbase.”
“Right. You wanted to go home.”
“In a passenger seat, not the cargo hold.”
I recalled another television show from the last days of South Vietnam and said to Susan, “In about late March of 1975, as the end drew near, World Airways sent two 727s on a mercy mission to rescue civilian refugees at Da Nang Airbase. When the first plane landed, about a thousand hysterical men, women, and children mobbed the aircraft. But the South Vietnamese military decided that they deserved to be saved instead of the civilians, and they began firing at the refugees, and two hundred soldiers from the South Vietnamese Black Panther regiment threw everyone off the aircraft but themselves.”
“That’s awful.”
“The pilot of the second 727 had the good sense not to land, but television cameras in that aircraft captured the sight of refugees hanging in the wheel wells of the first aircraft as it flew over the South China Sea. One by one, the people in the wheel wells fell off.”
“My God . . .”
I tried to imagine the panic and desperation of those last days before the final surrender. Millions of refugees, entire military units falling apart instead of fighting, paralysis in Saigon and in Washington, and the mesmerizing images of chaos and disintegration flashing across television screens around the world. A total humiliation for us, a complete disaster for them.
As it turned out, the bad guys weren’t that bad, and the good guys weren’t that good. It’s all perception, public relations, and propaganda anyway. Both sides had been dehumanizing each other for so long, they’d forgotten they were all Vietnamese, and all human.
Susan said, “I never knew any of this . . . no one talks about it.”
“Probably just as well.”
Highway One came to a T-intersection, and I looked at my map and pointed to the left. Mr. Cam made the turn, and we continued on. The highway around Da Nang was heavy with trucks, cars, and buses, and Mr. Cam played chicken with oncoming traffic every minute or so.
Susan told him to cool it, and he stayed behind a truck, which made him unhappy. It was Tet Eve, and he wanted to be back with his family in Nha Trang. He’d come very close to being there in spirit only.
The land started to rise, and I could see huge mountains up ahead, with spurs running right down into the South China Sea. The map showed that the highway went through these mountains, but I didn’t see how. As we continued to climb, I said to Susan, “Have you taken this road?”
“Yes. I told you, I took the torture bus, Saigon to Hue. It was a nightmare. Almost as bad as this trip.”
“Right. Is this mountain road dangerous?”
“It’s breathtaking. There’s a single pass through the mountains called Hai Van Pass. In French it’s called Col des Nuages.”
“Cloudy Pass.”
“Oui.” She continued, “These mountains used to separate what was then all of Vietnam to the north from the kingdom of Champa that we just drove through. There’s a distinct weather difference on either side of the pass, especially now in the winter.”
“Is it snowing in Hue?”
“No, Paul. But it will be much colder on the other side of Cloudy Pass, and possibly raining. This is the northern boundary of the tropics.” She added, “I hope you brought something warm to wear.”
In fact, I did not. But I shouldn’t blame Karl or anyone for that. I’d been on the other side of the pass in January and February of ’68, and I recalled the rainy days and the cold nights. I said to Susan, “Do you have something to wear in that bottomless backpack?”
“No. I’ll shop.”
“Of course.”
We kept climbing up the mountain. To the left of the road was a steep wall of rock and to the right, not far from the wheels of the car, was a sheer dropoff into the South China Sea.
Susan said, “This is spectacular.”
Mr. Cam was not sightseeing, thank goodness, and I saw that his knuckles were white. I said to Susan, “Tell him to pull over. I’ll drive.”
“No. There are police at the top of the pass.”
We climbed to about five hundred meters elevation, judging by the water below. The mountain towering over us to the left was at least another thousand meters. If I had driven this last night in the dark, it would not have been fun.
After what seemed like a long time, we approached the top of Cloudy Pass. The terrain flattened out, and I could see old concrete bunkers and stone fortifications on both sides of the road.
We reached the summit of the pass, and there were more fortifications scattered around. There was also a tour bus, a few cars with Vietnamese drivers and Western tourists, dozens of kids selling souvenirs, and a police outpost with two yellow jeeps parked out front.
Mr. Cam said something, and Susan said to me, “He wants to know if you want to stop and take pictures.”
“Next time.”
“Everyone stops. We should stop. It will look less suspicious.”
“Tell him to pull over.”
He pulled over close to the precipice, which dropped down to a small peninsula that was the end of the mountain spur. I said to Susan, “T
ake a picture, and let’s get out of here.” I kept my eyes on the cops hanging around near their jeeps on the other side of the road. They were glancing at all the cars and the tourists, but seemed too lazy to cross the road. Then again, you never know.
About twenty kids descended on the Nissan, pushing useless and stupid souvenirs at the windows.
A few of the kids had these aluminum can origamis of Huey helicopters, and I was amazed that these things had been faithfully reproduced for almost thirty years since the Americans had left.
One kid was banging the window with this tin Huey, and I saw that on the side of the helicopter was a perfectly painted black and yellow First Cavalry insignia. I said, “I have to have that.”
I lowered the window a crack, and the kid and I argued price. We each held on to the helicopter until I released a buck, just like a drug deal going down.
I cranked up the window and said to Mr. Cam, “Cu di.”
He threw the Nissan into gear, and we continued across the pass, then down the other side.
Susan asked, “Do you like your toy?”
“You don’t see these all over.” I hand-flew the tin helicopter around, then made a whooshing noise like rockets firing, followed by the chatter of a Gatling gun.
Mr. Cam laughed, but it was a nervous laugh.
Susan asked, “Are you all right?”
“Coming in for a landing.” I hovered the chopper and landed it on the dashboard.
Mr. Cam and Ms. Susan were quiet. I love acting nuts.
By now, we were on the downslope side of Cloudy Pass, and sure enough, there were clouds obscuring the road and a wind came up, then rain started to splatter against the windshield. Mr. Cam turned on his wipers and headlights.
We continued down, and the rain got heavier, and the wind rocked the Nissan. I glanced at Mr. Cam, and he looked a little concerned. When a Vietnamese driver is concerned, his round-eye passengers should be terrified.
Traffic was light both ways, but there was enough of it to make the descent more treacherous.