Up Country

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

It was a little after noon, and the rain had stopped but the sky remained gray. I could see a small propeller aircraft landing at Hue”Phu Bai Airport to the right of Highway One. This, too, had once been an American airbase, though not a major installation.

Susan spoke to Mr. Cam, and he pulled into the airport gate, where a police jeep sat. The rain had washed the mud from the car damage, and I pictured specks of yellow paint on the front fender. The two cops gave us the eye as we passed. I recalled Mr. Conway’s advice to avoid airports, but as it turned out, I needed to drag the red herring through an airport.

As we drove through the airport, I could see a few remnants of the American army and air force — concrete bunkers, revetments, and a concrete control tower that I remembered.

It wasn’t a busy place, so Mr. Cam was able to park in a space near the small terminal.

We got out of the Nissan, I opened the rear hatch, and put our luggage on the ground.

Mr. Cam stood by anxiously, waiting for what would happen next. He wasn’t dead, so he was way ahead of the game already.

I got out my wallet and counted out two hundred dollars, which I gave to Mr. Cam and said, “For Mr. Thuc.”

He smiled and bowed.

Then I pointed to the damage on the Nissan and asked him, “How much?”

He understood and said something, which Susan translated as three hundred dollars. I gave it to him without argument, looking forward to putting in this expense when I got back: Damage to hired car incurred while running police vehicle off road and killing two cops—$300. No receipt.

I looked closely at the damage and pointed out to Mr. Cam a few streaks of yellow paint. I pantomimed scraping them off, and he nodded quickly. Then I counted out another hundred and gave it to Mr. Cam, indicating that this was for him.

He smiled very wide and bowed lower.

I asked Susan, “You think that’s enough for almost getting him killed?”

“Sure. How much do I get?”

“You volunteered. He was kidnapped.” I reached in the car and took the toy helicopter off the dashboard and handed it to Mr. Cam. I said to him, “A gift for you so you can remember this trip forever.” As if he needed a reminder.

Susan translated something, and Mr. Cam bowed and said in English, “Thank you. Good-bye.”

I looked at my watch and said to Mr. Cam, “We fly to Hanoi now. You buying that?”

He smiled and said, “Hanoi.”

“Right.” I said to Susan, “Give him a final pitch about not going to the cops.”

She put her hand on Mr. Cam’s shoulder, and spoke to him in a low, soothing tone. He kept nodding. I kept looking at his eyes.

We all wished each other Chuc Mung Nam Moi, and Mr. Cam got into the Nissan and drove away.

I asked Susan, “Police station or Nha Trang?”

“Nha Trang.”

We gathered our luggage and walked into the terminal past two uniformed and armed men. The terminal, which had a Sixties air to it, was crowded, but not packed. The arrival and departure board showed flights only to 6 P.M.

Susan said, “Most of the Tet traveling has ended, and everyone is home by now.”

“I’m not. You’re not.” I looked around and said, “I was here once to catch a military flight to An Khe. The flight was full, and I couldn’t get on. The aircraft took off and hit a helicopter rising at the end of the runway. Killed everyone. Makes you wonder.”

Susan didn’t respond.

I looked around and saw armed uniformed guys walking in pairs, and they wore the same kind of uniform that Pushy had worn at Tan Son Nhat. Must be border patrol types. Two of them stopped a Westerner and asked for tickets and identification.

I said to Susan, “Okay, we’ve been here long enough. You and I will take separate taxis to the Century Riverside Hotel. I’ll go first and check in. You follow and try to get a room. If you can’t, just wait in the lobby, and I’ll meet you there.”

“Make it the lounge. I need a drink.”

“Me, too. Where’s the pistol?”

“On my person.”

“Why don’t you go to the ladies’ room, transfer it to your tote, and I’ll take the tote?”

“Why don’t you go catch a taxi?”

“Susan—”

“It’s my gun. If I get stopped and searched, I’ll tell them it’s a cigarette lighter. See you later.”

We stood there a moment, and I said, “Keep low when you pass that police jeep at the gate.”

“I know.”

I didn’t kiss her, I just turned and left the terminal. Outside, there were a few taxis, and I got into one, carrying my luggage, and said to the driver, “Hue. Century Riverside Hotel. Biet?”

He nodded and off we went. As we approached the police jeep, I bent down and tied my shoelace.

It was about ten kilometers to Hue, and we passed through the town of Phu Bai on the way, which I vaguely remembered. In the distance, I could see pagodas and the tombs of the emperors scattered through the low, rolling landscape.

We crossed a stream, and Highway One became Hung Vuong Street. I didn’t know Hue, but I knew of Hue, and I knew that we were in the New City on the east bank of the Perfume River. The old Imperial City was on the opposite bank.

The New City was a pleasant and prosperous-looking place, small in size, but bigger than the last time I’d seen it, which was from a helicopter in 1968, when it was basically a mound of rubble.

Within a few minutes, the taxi pulled into a circular driveway in front of the Century Riverside, which was set back from the street in its own gardens, and was indeed on the river. It was a fairly large, modern structure, five stories high, beautifully landscaped out front with a pond and a fountain. A big gold sign hung over the front doors that read Chuc Mung Nam Moi — Happy New Year.

I deserved this place.

I paid the taxi driver, and a bellboy appeared, who took my suitcase and gave me a receipt. I kept my overnight bag.

A doorman opened the front door and said, “Welcome to the hotel, sir.”

I walked into the big, expansive lobby, which was done in a tasteful modern style. Kumquat trees sat in urns on the floors, and branches of Tet blossoms were in vases.

The long check-in counter was to the left, and I picked the prettiest girl behind the counter and went over to her.

I said, “Checking in. Bond. James Bond.”

I gave her my voucher, and she looked at it, then at me. “You are…?”

“Brenner. Paul Brenner. It’s on the voucher.”

“Oh… sorry.”

She played with her keyboard and looked at her computer screen. I imagined a message in big red letters that said WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE — CALL THE POLICE.

But the pretty lady, whose nametag said Dep, which means pretty, was smiling as she read her screen. She said, “Ah, yes. Mr. Paul Brenner. Welcome to the Century Riverside, Mr. Brenner.”

“Thank you.”

I had the feeling I was a little underdressed, and probably I smelled, and I needed a shave and some toothpaste, but Dep didn’t seem to notice. She asked me, “Did you have a pleasant journey?”

“I had an interesting journey.”

“Yes? Where are you arriving from?”

“Nha Trang.”

“Ah. How is the weather there?”

“Very nice.”

“It’s very cloudy here, I’m afraid. But you might enjoy the cooler weather.”

“I’m sure I will.”

She got all the computer stuff in order and said to me, “We have a very nice suite for you, Mr. Brenner, with a terrace overlooking the river and the Old City.”

“Thank you.”

“Have you been to Hue before?”

“Close. Quang Tri. ’68.”

She looked up at me and said, “Ah.”

“Precisely.”

She asked, “May I see your passport and your visa?”

“You may, but I need them back.”

“Yes, of course. But I need to make a photocopy. Meanwhile, please fill in this registration card.”

I filled in the registration card while Dep turned around and made copies of my visa and passport. She came back to the desk and gave me my documents, and I gave her the registration card.

She said, “You will be staying with us three nights, correct?”

“Correct.” Do I get a refund if I’m arrested before then? I asked her, “By the way, do you have any rooms available?”

She played with her computer and said, “A few. We’re very busy for the holiday.” She found my key and said to me, “If there is anything we can help you with, the concierge is at your service.”

“Thank you. Are there any messages for me?”

“Let me see.”

She turned around and went through a file box. She extracted a big envelope and said, “I believe this is for you.”

I took the envelope and signed for it.

“Your luggage will be up shortly. Suite Six is on the fifth floor. The elevators are right behind you. Have a pleasant stay.”

“Thank you. You’re very pretty. Chuc Mung Nam Moi.”

She smiled, bowed her head and said, “Thank you. And Happy New Year.”

I went to the elevators and pushed UP. I’ve noticed that hotel people, in good hotels, all speak the same language, all over the world. They must be trained in someplace like Switzerland, perfect little androids with clockworks in their heads. And then they’re wound up and released on the world.

The elevator came, and I went up to the fifth floor and found my suite.

It had a large sitting room, and an equally large bedroom, a big bathroom, and sure enough, a terrace that looked out over the river to the Old City on the opposite bank.

The modern furniture looked comfortable, but my standards had dropped so low that I had lost any judgment.

There was a large alcove with a desk, and I sat behind the desk and opened the envelope.

It was a fax, addressed to me. It was from Karl, and it didn’t say Happy New Year.

I glanced at the message and noticed that the words weren’t couched in business jargon, where double entendres are easier to write and to understand. Karl had to use a friendly format because I wasn’t supposed to be here on business; I was a returning vet, a tourist, and Karl knew this fax would be in the hands of the police long before I saw it. Karl had also changed his sex, and was now Kay.

I read: Dear Paul, I hope this finds you well, and that your trip is everything you hoped it would be. Regarding that lady we discussed, I’ve heard that she may be married to another American, so you should be careful of pillow talk, and a jealous husband. As your friend, I advise you to end this relationship. No good will come of it. On a happier note, your Hue itinerary looks good. Hope you are having fun. Let me hear from you. It was signed: Love, Kay.

So, all I had to do was figure this out, which wasn’t that hard. Married to another American. Obviously, he meant that Susan might be working for another American intelligence service. But I already suspected that. So what? I wasn’t even sure who I was working for.

Your Hue itinerary looks good. Tomorrow’s rendezvous was on.

I opened the pencil drawer and found a fax transmittal form and wrote: Dearest Kay, Have arrived in Hue and received your fax. You’re so sweet to worry about my love life. But if you sleep with the enemy, you know where they are at night. The trip is going well — very moving, very enlightening. I love the Vietnamese people, and the government is doing a wonderful job here. I can’t thank you enough for suggesting this trip.

I looked up from my note, thought a moment, then added: The long shadows of the past do indeed still stretch from here to there, but the shadows in my mind and in my heart are fading, so if you don’t hear from me for a long time, know that I have found what I was looking for, and that I have no personal regrets about this journey. My love to C.

I looked at what I’d written, decided it was fine for Karl, for Colonel Mang, for Cynthia, for me, and for posterity.

I recalled my letters home in 1968, and remembered them as a mixture of news, some GI complaining, and a little homesickness. But like most of the guys in combat, who realized that each letter could well be the last, I always ended on a note that suggested I was at peace with myself; that I accepted the possibility of death, was not frightened by it, but, of course, hoped for a happier outcome. Implicit in the message was always the idea that the experience was doing me some good, so that I’d be a better person when I returned. I hoped God was reading the letter, too.

It was all pretty heavy stuff for an eighteen-year-old, but you grow up fast when you’re measuring your allotted time on earth in minutes.

And now, nearly three decades later, here I was again, my life still in danger, and my letter home still saying pretty much the same thing: I’ve prepared myself for whatever happens, and so should everyone there.

I left Karl’s fax to me on the desk because to destroy it might look suspicious to the people who’d already read it.

I stood and carried my overnight bag into the bathroom. I brushed my teeth, washed up, and combed my hair.

The doorbell rang, and I went into the living room and answered the door. It was my suitcase, and I gave the guy a buck. I opened the suitcase and threw on a wrinkled blue blazer. I was anxious to see Susan, so I didn’t unpack, and took my fax from the desk and went down to the lobby.

I gave the fax to a desk clerk along with a dollar, and asked the clerk if he’d fax this now and give me the fax back.

He replied, “Sorry, sir, fax machines are all day busy. It take one, two, hour. I fax for you and return original to room.”

I knew this routine, and what we’d gotten away with at the Grand Hotel in Nha Trang, I wasn’t going to get away with here. I could have gone to the General Post Office, but for all I knew, they photocopied your fax for the cops right in front of you. In any case, my fax to Karl was clean, and I was in a hurry. I left it with the clerk. I then went to the cashier and cashed five hundred dollars in traveler’s checks, for which I was given two trillion dong or something like that.

I looked around the lobby to see if Susan was there, but she wasn’t. I didn’t want to ask the desk clerk if she’d checked in, so I stood there awhile and waited. The lobby was bustling on this Saturday afternoon, the eve of Tet. Virtually all the guests were Western, and most of them looked European by their dress.

I did see three middle-aged guys who were obviously Americans, and just as obviously veterans. They were fairly well dressed for Americans — long pants, collared shirts, and blazers — and they carried themselves well. One of them had a Hemingway-type beard, and he looked familiar, like I’d seen him on TV or something.

I’m good at making educated guesses about people — I do it for a living. As I watched them standing in the lobby, talking, I guessed that they had all been officers, probably army or marines, because they didn’t have the sloppy and goofy mannerisms of air force officers, and they didn’t strike me as navy. They may have been combat veterans, rather than rear echelon types, and for sure they’d become financially successful over the years. They had gotten together and decided it was time to go back. They may have had women with them, but they were alone now. The guy with the beard made a command decision, and they all headed for the cocktail lounge. I followed.

The lounge had no bar, so I sat at a cocktail table facing the door. I was supposed to be at the Immigration police station now, but I’d decided that they could wait. Actually, they could go fuck themselves.

A waitress came by, and I ordered a San Miguel, then made it two. The waitress asked, “Person join you?”

“Yes.”

She put down two napkins and a bowl of peanuts.

I looked at my watch and looked at the door. Susan wasn’t the kind of woman you had to worry about to accomplish a simple task like taking a taxi from the airport. It was the gun thing that had me totally bummed out. All it would take was a random ID check at the airport, a minor auto accident, or a routine police stop on the road, and we’d be talking about a shoot-out or an arrest for a capital offense. Despite my job, I’m not crazy about guns, but I could see why so many Americans were enthusiastic about their rights to bear arms.

This made me wonder what happened to the millions of M-16s we’d given the South Vietnamese army. I hadn’t seen one American M-16 carried by a cop or a military man since I’d been here; they all had their Russian AK-47s, which they loved during the war.

Maybe, I thought, there were millions of M-16s hidden by the former ARVN, buried in plastic out in the vegetable patch or something. But probably not. This was a country of unarmed civilians and armed cops and soldiers. The defeat was complete, and the chances of an insurgency starting was nil. I recalled the photographs in the Museum of American War Crimes, the mass executions of insurgent tribespeople and former ARVN. Hanoi didn’t mess around.

Where was Susan?

The beers came and the waitress put them on the table with two glasses. I signed a chit and gave her a buck.

I drank some beer and ate some peanuts, staring at the door and glancing at my watch.

I could hear the three guys at a table nearby, and I listened, to take my mind off worrying about Susan.

I could only catch pieces of the conversation, but I heard some military talk and acronyms, so I’d gotten that right. One guy said something about a dustoff, meaning a medical evacuation by helicopter, and another guy said, “incoming,” meaning unfriendly rocket, artillery, or mortar fire. The third guy said something about the “pucker factor going up,” which meant everyone’s sphincter was tightening with fear. They all laughed.

Definitely combat vets. I glanced at them, and I could see they were having a good time, old vets like myself, back to kick the beast in the balls.

I wondered if they felt as strange and disconnected as I’d felt on the roof of the Rex, and was starting to feel here in the nice cocktail lounge of the luxury hotel built on the bank of the Perfume River where the marines had been dug in, exchanging fire across the river with the enemy, who held the opposite bank. I think if you keep the patter and chatter going, you block out the sounds of the machine guns and rockets. But if you sat silently, as I was doing now, you could still hear the distant thunder as it receded in time.

Susan should have arrived by now, and I needed to check with the desk clerk. I stood and started toward the door.

Just as I reached the door, she appeared suddenly, and I almost bumped into her. I said, by way of greeting, “Where the hell have you been?”

“It’s good to see you, too.”

“I was worried about you.”

“Sorry. I had to freshen up.”

In fact, she was wearing one of the silk blouses she’d bought in Nha Trang, black pants, and sandals. She’d obviously showered and put on makeup.

“I rushed down here to meet you, and you’re up in your room taking a bubble bath or something.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

I turned and walked to the cocktail table. I sat and drank my beer.

Susan sat opposite me and said, “Is this my beer?”

“Obviously.”

She poured herself some beer, took a few peanuts, and threw one at me. Hit me in the forehead.

She sat back, sipped her beer, and lit up.

She wasn’t saying anything, and she wouldn’t until I calmed down. I know women.

I said, “I could have gotten a massage if I’d known you were going to take your sweet time.”

She threw another peanut at me.

“We were supposed to meet here, right after — forget it. Where’s the heat?”

“Safe.”

“Safe where?”

“Under my bed.”

“Are you crazy?”

“No. And I’m not stupid either. I went out to the flower garden and buried it in a plastic bag.”

I calmed down a bit and asked, sarcastically, “Do you remember where you buried it?”

“Orange birds-of-paradise. I buried it while I sniffed the flowers.”

“Okay. And no one saw you?”

“I hope not.”

“And you wiped the prints clean?”

“Only mine. I left yours on the gun.”

I ordered another beer. I saw the three Americans glancing at Susan — leering, actually, and making comments. Men are pigs.

She asked me, “Any messages?”

“Yes. From K. He wants me to dump you.”

“Well, what difference does it make now?”

“None. Subject closed. Did you get a message?”

“No one knows what hotel I’m at.”

“I’ll bet they could figure it out real quick.”

She smiled. “Uh… duh…? Hey, did you know this is the Year of the Ox?”

“I thought it was the Year of the Toronto Blue Jays.”

“I mean the astrological year. Stop jerking me around.”

“Sorry. Year of the Ox.”

“Right. It’s forecast to be a propitious year.”

“What does that mean?”

“Lucky. Good fortune.”

“You mean for everybody?”

“I don’t know. Sorry I mentioned it. You’re a pain in the ass.”

She got sulky, which gave me a minute to reflect on a few things. Married to another American. Karl was teamed up with the FBI for this case, so he must mean that Susan was with the CIA or State Department Intelligence. SDI people fainted at the sight of a gun, so that kind of narrowed it down to CIA. Of course, there could be another player out there, like Military Intelligence. In any case, this wasn’t quite like sleeping with the enemy, but more like sleeping with a business competitor. Either that, or Karl was messing with my head, and that wouldn’t be the first time. Karl could also be wrong, and that, too, wouldn’t be the first time.

Susan interrupted my thoughts and said, “I’ve made a reservation here for an early dinner. They have this huge Tet meal laid on. Then we’ll walk around the Old City and see the celebration — dragon dances, puppet shows, music, and all that. Then we’ll go to the cathedral for midnight mass.”

She had to be CIA — who else would be so arrogant as to plan my evening for me?

She said, “Are you listening to me?”

“Yeah… Look, let’s have the early dinner and turn in—”

“Paul, it’s New Year’s Eve.”

“No, it’s not. That was a month ago.”

“It’s New Year’s Eve here.”

“I don’t believe it. You only lose or gain a day when you cross the International Dateline. Not a month.”

“I think we should go to your room, and you shower, since you obviously have not, then we’ll get very comfortable in bed, then dress for dinner.”

I couldn’t find anything wrong with that, so I stood and said, “Okay. Let’s go.”

“Can I finish my beer?”

“I have a mini-bar in the room. Let’s go.”

“Are you hot?”

“Yes, let’s go.”

She stood, we walked out to the lobby, took the elevator up to the fifth floor, and I led her to my suite.

She said, “Oh, this is very nice. They gave me a small room on the first floor overlooking the street.” She added, “Room 106.”

She walked to the glass doors and went out to the long terrace. I followed.

The Perfume River was spanned by two bridges that connected the Old and New City, and alongside the closest bridge were the ruined remains of another bridge that had been destroyed, probably in ’68.

Across the river sat the walled city of Hue, known as the Citadel, the capital of the emperors. From this height, we could see over the Citadel walls and into the city, and what struck me was that about half the central part of the city seemed to be missing, replaced by open fields in which lay the outlines of what had once been buildings.

Susan said, “You see those walls within the Citadel walls? That’s the Imperial Enclosure, and within those walls are the walls of the Forbidden Purple City, where only the Emperor, his concubines, and the eunuchs were allowed.”

“So I’m not allowed in there, but you are.”

“Very funny.” She went on, “Most of the ancient buildings were destroyed in 1968.”

“I see that.” Somewhere down there, at noon tomorrow or later, I was to meet my contact. I hoped it wasn’t a woman.

Susan said, “My guide told us that the Americans bombed the city mercilessly for thirty days and destroyed most of the antiquities.”

I didn’t feel like defending the American use of overwhelming firepower, but I said, “The North Vietnamese army captured the city by surprise on Tet Eve, during the Tet truce. It took thirty days of bombing, shelling, and ground action to get them out. It’s called war.”

She nodded and said, “But… it’s such a shame.”

“The Communists went around with names and addresses of people they wanted liquidated. They shot over three thousand soldiers and civilians who were on their lists. Did your guide tell you that?”

“No.”

I looked off to the northwest and said, “My infantry company was dug into those foothills way out there on the horizon. We could see the battles raging in Quang Tri and Hue. We moved down from the hills and tried to block the escape of the Communist troops after they’d given up Quang Tri. Then we moved farther south toward Hue, and set up a blocking force to intercept the stragglers coming out of Hue so they couldn’t disappear into the hills.”

She looked out at the countryside to the north and west, and said, “So you were right out there?”

“Yes.”

“And the battle was going on right here in the city?”

“Yes. On this side of the river, right where we are now, the marines were dug in and controlled this riverbank and the New City.” I said, “Quang Tri is about sixty kilometers due north of here, right up Highway One, which you can see over there.”

“You should go to Quang Tri.”

“I think I will. I’ve come this far.”

“I’d like to go with you, if you want the company.”

I nodded. “This stretch of Highway One from Hue to Quang Tri was called by the French soldiers the Street Without Joy. The name stuck, and that’s what we called it, although some guys called it Ambush Alley, or Fucked Up Road One.”

She asked me, “Where is the A Shau Valley?”

I pointed due west. “Right over that mountain range, maybe seventy kilometers, near the Laotian border. It’s a very isolated place, more of a box canyon than a valley, surrounded by mountains, and socked in by clouds most of the year. It may be hard to get there.”

“I’m game.”

I looked at her and smiled. “Were you really boring once?”

“Boring and coddled. I used to throw a fit if room service was slow.”

I took a final look at the city of Hue, turned and walked off the terrace.

I went into the bathroom, shaved and showered.

Susan and I made love in the comfortable bed, then fell asleep.

We got up at six, dressed, and went down to the hotel dining room where New Year’s Eve dinner was being served, buffet style.

Every seat seemed to be filled, and we sat at a small table for two near the riverside garden, which, according to Susan, was not far from her buried pistol.

Everyone there was a European or American, and I spotted the three guys I’d seen before. They were sitting at a table with a group of women, and I could tell by the body language that the ladies were not their wives or girlfriends. The guys were on their game, and the women were either entranced or faking it.

A band played elevator music, and the dining room was a sea of smiling faces, sparkling crystal, and hustling waiters. In 1968, I wouldn’t have thought this was possible.

One buffet table was laden with real Vietnamese holiday food, which had signs in several languages, so that everyone could avoid most of it. The other tables had make-believe Vietnamese food, Chinese food, and Western dishes. Susan and I ate like pigs, using chopsticks, knives, forks, and our fingers.

We left the hotel at nine and walked across the Perfume River via the Trang Tien Bridge.

The night was cool, and the sky had become clear. The moon was now a thin sliver that would disappear shortly, and the stars were brilliant. Thousands of people strolled along the tree-shaded embankment, between the river and the towering walls of the Citadel. The city was festooned with red flags, and many of the buildings were outlined in lights and Chinese lanterns.

The focus of activity seemed to be around the historic flag tower opposite the main gates of the wall. Entire families sat or walked, greeting one another and wishing each other a Happy New Year.

Susan said, “Fireworks are banned for individuals, but the city will probably fire off a few rockets like they do in Saigon. When I arrived in Saigon three years ago, fireworks were still legal, and on Tet Eve, the whole city sounded like a war zone.”

“I know that sound.”

Opposite the flag tower, the massive Citadel gates were open, and beyond the gates was an ornamental bridge, which led to the Emperor’s Palace. The palace was big, made of stone and red lacquered wood, and had a traditional tiled roof. It was all lit up with floodlights, and decorated for the holiday. I wondered how this place had escaped the bombing.

But then Susan said, “People and organizations from all over the world donated money to rebuild the palace in its original style.”

“Good. Let’s go in. I’ll donate a fiver.”

“You can’t go in tonight. See those soldiers? They’re turning people away. Must be a government ceremony or something.”

“I’ll give them a ten.”

“Forget it. You’re in enough trouble.”

So we continued our stroll along the embankment, then passed through a smaller gate into the city.

There were lots of people around, and we saw a dragon dance, and a few silly puppet shows set up in makeshift theaters. There were groups of musicians playing traditional music on stringed instruments, which was very whiny and irritating.

Most of the cafés and restaurants had closed, but we found a café owned by a Catholic couple who stayed open to get the Buddhist business.

The café was crowded with Viets and Westerners, but we found a table and had coffee.

I said to Susan, “This is nice. I’m glad I’m here.”

“Me, too.”

“You’re missing the Vincent party in Saigon.”

“There’s no place in the world that I’d rather be than here, with you.”

I said, “I feel the same way.”

We finished our coffee. There were no taxis or cyclos around, so we walked back across the Perfume River by the Phu Xuan Bridge into the New City where Susan said the cathedral was located.

From the bridge, I could see a big sports complex along the riverbank, with tennis courts, a swimming pool, and playing fields. Susan said, “That’s the Cercle Sportif. The old French sporting club. There’s one in Saigon, and in a lot of major cities. Used to be whites only. Now, it’s mostly Party members only.”

“Commies play tennis?”

“I don’t know. I guess so. Why not?”

“I’m trying to picture Colonel Mang in tennis whites.”

She laughed, then said, “When no one is looking, the pigs walk on their hind legs.”

“So I’ve heard.”

We continued across the bridge, and suddenly there were flashes of orange light in the sky, followed by a series of explosions; I flinched, then realized it was sky rockets. My heart was actually racing, and I took a deep breath.

Susan looked at me.

I felt a little foolish and joked, “I thought Charles was back.”

She said, “That’s why I mentioned the fireworks before.”

As we came off the bridge, I started to cross the street, but Susan stopped me. “See that little booth on the opposite corner? That’s the police checkpoint. Avoid that corner. They sometimes harass Westerners, as I found out when I was here.”

“I haven’t been harassed by the police since Thursday night. I’m feeling neglected. Let’s go have an argument with them.”

“Please.”

We avoided the police booth and crossed in mid-block. As we walked, I said to her, “Maybe we can skip mass.”

She replied, “You should get down on your knees and thank God that you’re even here in one piece.”

It was a hike to the cathedral, and the city streets were starting to become deserted. Susan said, “Everyone is home now for the traditional meal.”

“Why don’t the Buddhists go to the pagodas for midnight mass?”

“I don’t think it’s called mass, and they pray when they feel like it.”

We arrived at the Cathedral of Notre Dame at about quarter to midnight, and there were still people arriving, mostly on foot. The majority were Viets, but there were a number of round-eyes as well.

The cathedral was impressive, but not old. It was, in fact, fairly modern, with some Gothic and Vietnamese touches. I assumed that whatever old churches had existed had been destroyed.

We went inside and found space in a pew toward the rear. I said to Susan, “If this is a Buddhist holiday, why is there a Catholic mass?”

“I don’t know. You’re Catholic. E-mail the Pope.”

The mass began. The entire mass and the hymns were in Vietnamese, which was funny, like it was being dubbed. I skipped communion as I’d done in Notre Dame, Saigon, but most of the congregation, including Susan, went up to the altar. There wasn’t any of this sign of peace stuff that they do now in Catholic churches in the States, which was good because this crowd would probably bow instead of shaking hands, and everyone would bump heads.

I noticed that the citizens of Hue were better dressed than the Viets south of the Hai Van Pass, and I supposed that had to do with the cooler weather, and maybe the sophistication of this city.

My multicultural experience came to an end, and we followed the recessional out into the open plaza in front of the cathedral.

People stood around and chatted, and somehow, don’t ask how, Susan got into a conversation with a Viet family. They were very impressed with her fluent Vietnamese, and her rudimentary French, which they also spoke.

Long story short, we were on our way to dinner with the Pham family.

On the way there, walking with this entire clan, I said to Susan, “Didn’t you tell them I wasn’t of good character?”

“Fortunately, they didn’t ask about either of us.”

On the way, Susan gave me a quick course in Vietnamese table manners. She said, “Don’t leave your chopsticks sticking up in the rice bowl. That’s a sign of death, like the joss sticks in the bowls in cemeteries and family altars. Also, everything is passed on platters. You have to try everything that’s passed to you. If you empty a glass of wine or beer, they automatically refill it. Leave half a glass if you don’t want any more.”

“Sounds like South Boston.”

“Listen up. The Vietnamese don’t belch like the Chinese do to show they enjoyed the meal. They consider that crude, as we do.”

“I don’t consider belching crude. But then, I don’t belong to the Junior League.”

She made a sound of exasperation, then said, “Okay, when you’ve had enough to eat, you stick your chopsticks in your nostrils.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me.”

The Phams lived in a nice private house, not too far from the cathedral, and they obviously had a few dong.

I still had rice coming out of my ears from the meal at the hotel, but that was no excuse not to eat.

I found myself wedged in at a long table between a hundred-year-old grandma and some snotty kid. Across from me, however, was a number one co-dep, and she spoke a little English, but not enough for me to show her how charming I was. She may have belonged to someone, but she kept smiling and giggling, and passing me platters.

Everyone spoke ten words of English, and they weren’t the same ten words, so the conversation moved okay. Plus, most of them knew some French, and my limited French was coming back to me. The Vietnamese phrases that I knew well, as I said, were not appropriate for a family dinner. I did, however, consider asking co-dep to show me her ID card.

Susan was down at the other end of the table, and she was having a good time.

The Vietnamese seemed very pleasant in a family setting, but the public and commercial life of this whole country was a disaster.

A guy of about thirty sitting next to Susan said in passable English, “Mr. Paul, Miss Susan tell me you here in 1968.”

“Quang Tri.”

“Yes? You fight Communists.”

“That’s why I was here.”

“You kill?”

“Uh… I guess.”

“Good.” He stood and said something to the crowd, raised his glass to me, and said in English, “To this brave soldier who kill the…” He asked Susan something, then finished his sentence with, “kill the Antichrists.”

Everyone toasted, and I felt compelled to stand. I had the distinct feeling this was an anti-Communist crowd, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the door burst open and the Ministry of Public Security goons came in and arrested everyone. Karl would not approve of me being here. I raised my glass and said, “To the brave Catholics of Vietnam. The only good Red is a dead Red.”

My host seemed momentarily confused, but Susan translated, and everyone applauded.

I looked at Susan and saw she was rolling her eyes. I sat and waited for the door to burst open.

At about 2 A.M., I considered sticking my chopsticks up my nostrils, but we didn’t get out of there until about 3 A.M., and the streets were deserted. Also, I was a little inebriated.

Susan said, “Wasn’t that an experience?”

I burped. “It was.”

“I’m having such a good time with you.”

I burped again. “Good.”

“They were such nice people.”

“Right. A little bloodthirsty, but nice.”

“Mr. Uyen, the man sitting next to me, who toasted you, told me that many of his family were murdered by the Communists in 1968. That’s why they’re so… hateful of the regime.”

“You know, everyone here is full of suppressed hate and rage over what happened. Colonel Mang, Mr. Uyen, all of them. They’d love to get their hands around each other’s throats again.”

Susan didn’t reply.

I said, “Anyway, the Phams should be careful. The Ministry of Public Security does not play games.”

“I’m sure they’re careful.”

“They didn’t even know us.”

“We’re Americans, and Catholics. One of us is Catholic.”

“Right.” It was interesting that the Viets assumed all Americans were anti-Communist. I guess they hadn’t met any Ivy League professors. I said, “I don’t think we were followed from the cathedral, and no one is following us now. But you didn’t do the Pham family any favors by inviting yourself to dinner. Conversely, they’re probably on a few watch lists, so we didn’t do ourselves any favors by going there.”

She stayed silent awhile, then said, “Point made.” She added, “But I think even the cops are celebrating tonight.”

“I hope so.”

We walked through the quiet streets, then Susan said, “You seemed to be enjoying the company of that young lady across from you.”

“What young lady?”

“The one you were speaking to all night.”

“Oh, that one. She’s a nun.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Susan, I’m tired, I have a headache, and we’re lost.”

“We’re not lost. The hotel’s that way.”

We kept walking, and sure enough, we turned a corner and saw the hotel.

Susan suddenly stopped. “Paul.”

“What?”

“Weren’t you supposed to report to the Immigration Police today?”

“I was busy today. I’ll do it tomorrow.” We continued walking.

“You should have gone today. They know you’re here because the hotel reported your check-in.”

“Well, then, they know I’m here. Fuck ’em.” I added, “Colonel Mang has me on a long leash. He wants to see what I’m up to.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know.”

“So what happens tomorrow when you have to make a rendezvous? What if you’re being watched?”

“You always plan a secret rendezvous as if you’re being watched. That’s why they’re called secret.” I added, “I have to ask you to stay out of the Citadel tomorrow.”

“Oh… okay.”

“Unless you’re my contact.”

“That would be interesting.”

We got to the hotel, and I said, “Let’s go around back, and you can show me where it’s buried.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Now.”

“Okay…”

We walked on a path to the gardens at the rear of the hotel. The land sloped down to the river, and the gardens were terraced and lit with small ground lights.

We walked down a path toward the river, and Susan nodded to her right. “See them? Orange birds-of-paradise.”

“Is that the flower that eats flies?”

“No, Paul. Do you see them or not?”

“I do. Someplace in there?”

“Yes. A foot to the right of the middle garden light. The soil is very loamy. I can dig it up with my hand.”

“Okay. I’ll get it before we leave.”

“I’ll get it.”

I didn’t reply. We stood in the garden and looked out at the river. At this hour, we were the only ones there; we turned and walked back to the front of the hotel.

We went into the lobby, and I checked for messages. There were two for me, and I signed for them.

Susan and I took the elevator up to my suite, where I collapsed in an armchair. “God, I’m getting old.”

“You’re in great shape. Open the envelopes.”

I opened the small one first and read aloud, “ ‘You to report to Immigration Police tomorrow in morning.’ ”

Susan said, “That leash is not that long.”

“Long enough. If they were really pissed, they’d be sitting here now.”

“It’s New Year’s Eve. What’s the other message?”

I opened the big envelope and took out a fax. It was from Karl, and I read it to myself: Dear Paul, Perhaps my last message was not clear — You really need to end that relationship. Please tell me you have. It was signed: Love, Kay.

The nice thing about not being in the army was that you don’t have to obey a direct order from someone who was.

I noticed a P.S. It said: C sends her love. Will see you in Honolulu.

That could be pure bullshit to keep me in line. In any case, the situation vis-à-vis Susan had become complicated, and I didn’t know how I felt about meeting Cynthia in Honolulu.

Susan was looking at me. She asked, “Who is the message from?”

“Kay.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t look all right. Can I see the message?”

“No.”

She looked hurt, offended, and pissed.

I stood, went toward the terrace with the message, then turned around, and handed her the fax. I said, “It’s Ms. Kay now. Same guy.”

She took it and read it, then handed it back. She stood and said, “I think I’ll sleep in my room tonight.”

“Probably you should.”

She turned, walked to the door, and without hesitation opened it and left.

I went out on the terrace and looked at the city across the river. The holiday lights were still on, mostly red, as you’d expect in a Red country.

I thought of the Pham family. There was, I thought, a gray cloud over this country, formed from the smoke and fire of war, and it rained down hate, sorrow, and mistrust.

If that wasn’t bad enough, this cloud, or, as Karl called it, this shadow still covered my own country.

Truly, Vietnam was the worst thing that ever happened to America in this century, and perhaps the reverse was also true.

The phone rang, and I went back inside and answered it. “Hello.”

“I just wanted to say good luck tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

“If something happened to you, and we parted—”

“Susan, the phones aren’t secure. I know what you’re saying, and I was about to call you.”

“Do you want me to come to your room?”

“No. We’re both tired, and we’ll have a fight.”

“Okay. Where and when can we meet tomorrow?”

“At six here in the lounge. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Okay… and if you’re very late?”

“Fax Ms. Kay directly. Do you have the number?”

“I remember it.”

“Give her all the details, and be sure you stand at the fax machine, or try the GPO.”

“I know.”

“I know you do. You’re a pro.”

“Paul…?”

“Yes?

“I had no right to get upset about that P.S. I apologize.”

“Forget it.”

“This is what it is. This is here and now. I said that, and I meant it.”

I didn’t reply to that, and I said, “Hey, I had a good day. Happy New Year.”

“Me, too, and you, too.”

We both hung up.

So, I’m having lady problems in a hostile country halfway around the world, people are trying to arrest me or kill me, and it’s 4 A.M., and I need to see the cops in the morning, then make a possibly dangerous rendezvous at noon. And yet, for some reason, none of this bothered me. In fact, the entire Highway One ordeal, including killing the two cops, and the flashbacks, and all of the rest of it, didn’t bother me.

I recognized this feeling for what it was: survival mode. Life was no longer complicated. It all came down to getting home one last time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

It wasn’t the worst New Year’s Day hangover I’ve ever had, but it may have been the earliest I’d ever been awake to fully appreciate it.

I showered and dressed for success — blue blazer, white button-down shirt, khaki slacks, and docksiders with socks.

I took an orange juice from the mini-bar and swallowed two aspirin with my malaria pill. I was glad they hadn’t given me a suicide pill because I felt lousy enough to take it.

I went downstairs, skipped breakfast, and walked the few blocks to Ben Nghe Street, where the Immigration Police were located.

It was a cool, damp morning, high cloud cover, and the streets were nearly deserted, and strewn with trash from the night before.

I thought maybe I should have called Susan, but sometimes a little separation is good. I’d been separated from Cynthia more than we’d been together, and we got along great. Maybe not great, but okay.

I got to the police building, a structure of prefab concrete, and went inside.

In a small foyer sat a uniformed guy at a desk, and he said to me in English, “What you want?”

Rather than reply and confuse the idiot, I gave him a photocopy of Colonel Mang’s note, which he read. He stood and disappeared into a hallway behind him.

A minute later, he reappeared and said to me, “Room.” He held up two fingers.

I returned the peace sign and went to Room 2, a small office whose door was open. Behind a desk sat a man about my age in uniform, who looked more hungover than I did.

He didn’t invite me to sit, but just looked at me awhile. I looked at him. Something not pleasant passed between us.

On his desk lay his gun belt and holster, which held a Chicom 9mm. There wasn’t a police station in America where you’d get this close to a cop’s gun. Here, the cops were sloppy and arrogant. This offended me, and having to stand also pissed me off.

The cop looked at the note in his hand and said to me, “When you arrive Hue?”

I’d had enough of this crap, and I replied, “The Century Riverside Hotel told you when I arrived. You know that’s where I’m staying for three nights. Any other questions?”

He didn’t like my reply or my tone of voice. He raised his voice, which became sort of high pitched, and he almost shouted, “Why you not report here yesterday?”

“Because I didn’t want to.”

He did not like that. I mean, he’s working on New Year’s Day, he’s got little rice wine demons smashing gongs in his head, and he’s getting attitude from a round-eye.

So, we stared at each other, and as I said, something unhealthy was passing between us, and it wasn’t just irritation brought on by mutual hangovers. He said to me, “You soldier here?”

“That’s right. How about you?”

“Me, too.”

We kept staring at each other, and I now noticed a jagged scar running down from half an ear, zigzagging over the side of his neck and disappearing beneath his open collar. Half his teeth were missing or broken, and the rest were brown.

He asked me, “When you here?”

“I was here in 1968, I was with the First Cavalry Division, I saw combat at Bong Son, An Khe, Quang Tri, Khe Sanh, the A Shau Valley, and all over Quang Tri Province. I fought the North Vietnamese army and the Viet Cong, you killed a lot of my friends, and we killed a lot of your friends. We all killed too many civilians, including the three thousand men and women you murdered here in Hue. Any other questions?”

He stood and stared at me, and I could see his eyes go nuts before his face even twitched.

Before he could say anything, I said, “Any more questions? If not, I’m leaving.”

He shouted at the top of his lungs, “You stay! You stay here!”

I pulled up a chair, sat, crossed my legs, and looked at my watch.

He seemed confused, but then realized he should sit, which he did.

He cleared his throat and pulled a piece of paper toward him. He clicked a ballpoint pen, got himself nearly under control, and asked me, “How you get to Hue?”

“Bus.”

He wrote that down and asked, “When you leave Nha Trang?”

“Friday afternoon.”

“Get to Hue what time?”

I took a guess and replied, “Ten or eleven o’clock Friday night.”

“Where you stay Friday night?”

“Mini-motel.”

“What is name of mini-motel?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why you not know?”

When you need to explain missing time periods to the police, always come up with a sexual liaison, but do not use this excuse at home. I replied, “Meet lady on bus. She take me to mini-motel. Biet?”

He thought about that and asked again, “What is name of mini-motel?”

“The Ram-It Inn. Fucky-fucky Mini-Motel. How the hell do I know the name of the place?”

He stared at me a long time, then said, “Where you go from Hue?”

“I don’t know.”

“How you leave Hue?”

“I don’t know.”

He tapped his fingers on his desk near his holster, then said, “Passport and visa.”

I threw the photocopies on his desk.

He shook his head. “Need passport and visa.”

“In hotel.”

“You bring here.”

“No.”

His eyes narrowed and he shouted, “You bring here!”

“Go to hell.” I stood and walked out of the room.

He ran after me and grabbed my shoulder. I pushed his arm away, and we faced off out in the corridor.

We looked into each other’s eyes and both of us, I think, saw the same thing: a bottomless pit of pure hate.

I had been this close to only three enemy soldiers, and with two of them, what I’d seen and smelled was fear. On the other one, however, I’d seen this look that was not combat hostility, but a pure hatred that was ingrained in every atom of that man’s being, and which ate at his heart and soul.

And for a second, which seemed like an eternity, I was back in the A Shau Valley, and that man was staring at me again, and I was staring back at him, both of us looking forward to killing the other.

I came back to the present and tried to regain some sense of sanity, but I really wanted to kill this man with my bare hands, to bash his face to a pulp, pull his arms out of their sockets, smash his testicles, crush his windpipe, and watch him suffocate.

He sensed all of this, of course, and was having murderous fantasies of his own, probably having more to do with a sharp filet knife.

But unlike on a battlefield, we both had other orders, and we each reluctantly pulled back from that darkest place in our hearts.

I felt drained, as though I’d actually been in battle, and the cop, too, looked spent.

Almost simultaneously, we each nodded in recognition, and we turned and parted.

Outside, on the street, I stopped and took a deep breath. I tried to clear the bad thoughts from my head, but I had this almost uncontrollable urge to run back in there and smash that son of a bitch into a bloody pulp. I could actually feel his flesh splitting under my knuckles.

I put one foot in front of the other until I was well away from the police station.

I walked aimlessly awhile, trying to burn off the adrenaline. I found myself kicking bottles in the street and punching signposts. This was not good, but it was inevitable, and maybe it was good. Unfortunately, it wasn’t cathartic; quite the opposite.

It was about 9 A.M. now, and the New City was starting to stir. I walked toward the Perfume River via Hung Vuong Street, which took me to the Trang Tien Bridge. In the river near the bridge was a floating restaurant that I’d noticed the night before. There were a few people sitting at café tables on the deck, so I walked to the restaurant, crossed the gangplank, and was greeted by a young man who looked like he hadn’t yet gotten to sleep.

He showed me to an outdoor table, and I ordered a coffee with a double cognac, which pleased him and would please me more.

The deck was strewn with decorations, paper party hats, champagne bottles, and even a lady’s shoe. Clearly, not everyone had spent midnight gathered around the family dinner table and the home altar.

The coffee and cognac came, and I poured half of it down my throat. My stomach was already churning with bile and acid, and the coffee and cognac just added to the unhealthy brew.

I sat there on the gently swaying deck of the floating restaurant, and stared across the misty river at the gray, brooding walls of the Citadel.

I really didn’t want to dwell on what happened at the police station — I knew what happened, why it happened, and I knew it could happen again, any time, any place.

I finished the coffee and cognac and ordered another. The young man put the cognac bottle on the table, recognizing, I guess, a guy who needed a few drinks.

After my second C&C, I felt a little better and thought about my job. My problem at the moment was to shake any tail I might have, and meet someone on the other side of the river at noon, or two, or at four. And if those rendezvous didn’t work out, I was to await a message at the hotel, and be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice.

If, however, I made a successful rendezvous, I’d know where I was supposed to go next.

Every man or woman on a dangerous assignment has a small, secret wish that the whole thing would just fizzle out. You want to know in your guts that you’ll go, but you’re not going to be disappointed if they say “Mission canceled.”

I remembered this feeling when we’d moved out of the foothills toward Quang Tri City with orders to retake the city from the Communists. By the time we got there, the South Viets had done the dirty work, and we were all secretly relieved, but outwardly we expressed great disappointment that we hadn’t gotten a piece of the action. No one, including ourselves, believed a word of it. But that’s what macho posturing is all about.

Then, in late March, we got our wish to get a piece of the action; we were told we were going to Khe Sanh to face twenty thousand well-armed, well-entrenched North Vietnamese troops who had surrounded the marines at the Khe Sanh firebase since January. This is not the kind of news that brightens your day.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sights and sounds of hundreds of helicopters picking up thousands of infantrymen and air-assaulting into the hills around Khe Sanh. If ever there was an apocalyptic vision on this earth, short of a nuclear explosion, this air assault was it; fighter-bombers dropping hundreds of thousand-pound bombs that made heaven and earth shake, jet fighters releasing tumbling canisters of napalm, the earth aflame, rivers, streams, and lakes burning, forests engulfed in fire, and great fields of elephant grass and bamboo ablaze and, all the while, the helicopters are firing rockets and machine guns into the inferno below, and artillery shells are raining down high explosives and burning white phosphorus, making the dark earth erupt like mini-volcanoes. The sky is black with smoke, the earth is red with fire, and the thin layer of air in between is a killing zone of streaking red and green tracer rounds, hot, jagged shrapnel, and plummeting helicopters. Apocalypse now.

I remember the helicopter I was on swooping in for a touch-and-go landing, and I was standing on the landing skid, ready to jump, and the guy standing on the skid beside me put his lips to my ear and shouted over the din of explosions, “Hey, Brenner, you think this is a go?”

We both laughed in recognition of what we and everyone had been thinking before the assault began, and in that moment, we formed a communal bond with every soldier in history who ever waited for the sound of the bugle, the war pipes, the whistle, the red flare, or whatever it was that meant Go.

Go. You are no longer human, you have no mothers, no wives, no one you care about, except the man beside you. Go. This is the moment you have been dreading for as long as you can remember, this is the fear that comes to you in the night before you sleep, and the nightmare that wakes you out of your sleep. This is it — it’s here, it’s now, it’s real. Go. Meet it.

I wiped the clammy sweat off my face and dried my hands on my trousers.

And then there was the A Shau Valley.

When you think you’ve plumbed the depths of fear, when you’ve gotten to a place at the end of the tunnel, where it can’t get any more narrow or any more black, a place where you no longer have the capacity for fear, in a little corner of the tunnel where you laugh at death, you discover a secret room with the greatest fear of all: inside that room is yourself.

I stood, left five dollars on the table, and walked over the bridge to the Citadel.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I spent the next few hours sightseeing with my guidebook in hand, snapping photos, taking cyclos and taxis, doubling back on streets, and generally making life miserable for anyone who was trying to follow me.

The crowds around the sights were thin because of the late celebration the night before, and I had the feeling that my contact might wait until 2 P.M., when there were more people around.

Almost everyone who was meandering about were Caucasians, so I didn’t stick out. Most of the morning sufferers, I noticed, were with organized tour groups but as the morning got later, I saw a few Viet families out for a stroll. The walls of the Citadel were over two kilometers on each side, and I stayed within the walls where most of the people were.

At 11:30 A.M., I left the walled city through a gate that put me back on the river walk. I headed south along the embankment where there were a good number of people strolling, and dozens of cyclos, which followed me wherever I went, the drivers yelling, “Hello! Cyclo? Hello! Cyclo?”

The cyclomen, as in Saigon and Nha Trang, looked like what was left of the losing side in the war. The winning side looked like the cop in the Immigration police station. It had been one of those wars where the vanquished looked slightly more well adjusted than the victors. The only hope I saw in this country was in the eyes of the children, and even those eyes didn’t always look hopeful.

I continued along the river and came to the main gates opposite the flag tower where Susan and I had been the night before. The gates were open to the public today, and I re-entered the walled city and crossed the ornamental bridge where dozens of tourists were snapping pictures. I was now in the Imperial Enclosure, formerly reserved for the Emperor and his court. The Emperor’s Palace was also open, and I entered the huge, dark structure. The entrance hall was red and black lacquered wood, with lots of gilded dragons, and green demons with glassy eyes, the sort of stuff that doesn’t help a hangover.

I exited the rear of the palace and directly in front of me was the Halls of the Mandarins, Number 32 in my guidebook.

This was another ornate building, which, according to my book, had been resurrected from the ashes of 1968, and it had that old/new look, like a Disneyland pavilion. I snapped a photo.

It was 11:45, and I had no idea where, exactly, I was supposed to meet this person. The Halls of the Mandarins was big, and like all buildings, it had an outside and an inside, but Mr. Conway had not been specific, though common sense would dictate inside if it was raining, which it wasn’t.

I walked around the perimeter of the building, and by now I was certain I wasn’t being watched or followed. TV shows to the contrary, it’s almost impossible to tail someone for three hours unless you’re on a treadmill, and then it’s easy to spot your tail.

At this point, if I did spot someone who was watching me, it could very well be my contact, and I looked out for that, too.

The danger, I knew, wasn’t in me being followed; I’m better at shaking a tail than a married man with a jealous wife.

The real danger was that my contact might be well known to the Ministry of Public Security, Sections A, B, C, D, and E. It’s almost always the local amateur, hired by some half-wit in Washington, who shows up at a secret rendezvous with fifteen cops on his tail, half of them with video cameras.

Thank God this guy didn’t have to pass anything to me that would be incriminating, like a box full of documents marked “Top Secret.”

No one approached me, but I still had about five minutes, so I walked through yet another gate, this one leading into the Forbidden Purple City, which was the inner sanctum within the outer sanctum of the Imperial Enclosure. These emperors liked their privacy, and according to Susan, only the Emperor, his concubines, and his eunuchs were allowed in the Purple City. In other words, this whole compound was reserved for two balls. I need a place like this.

Actually, there wasn’t much left in the Forbidden Purple City — no emperors, no eunuchs, and unfortunately, no concubines — only wide expanses of fields and low foundation walls where buildings once stood. The only intact structure was the rebuilt Royal Library, Number 23 on my guidebook map, and my second rendezvous point at 2 P.M., if the first one didn’t come off.

There were a number of Westerners in the Purple City, and I overheard a middle-aged couple speaking in American English. She was saying how awful it was that the American military bombed these architectural treasures into rubble. He agreed and added, “We cause death and destruction wherever we go.”

I didn’t think he meant him and his wife, who only caused stupidity wherever they went. As part of my cover, I offered to take their picture together in front of a grassy expanse of waste and rubble. They seemed pleased and gave me their idiotically complex camera that had more stops than the Washington Metro.

As I focused, I said to them, “Did you know that the Communists attacked this beautiful city during the Tet truce, the holiest night of the Buddhist year? Smile. Did you know that the Communist political cadres executed over three thousand citizens of Hue, men and women, by shooting, bashing their heads in, or burying them alive? Smile.”

They weren’t smiling for some reason, but it was a photo that they’d remember, so I fired off two shots, the second with the guy coming toward me, holding out his hand for the camera.

The guy took his camera without a word of thanks, and he and his wife walked away, a little less ignorant than a minute ago, but obviously not happy with this new information. Hey, you’re supposed to learn things when you travel; I had.

I walked out of the Purple City, back to the Halls of the Mandarins, and wandered around inside. The place was big, and I had no idea how this person was going to spot me. If we both had tails, maybe the tails could sort of help us get together for a photo and a bust.

Despite my flippancy, I was getting a little concerned. Again, I knew I was alone, but I had not one iota of confidence that the other guy was similarly alone.

At 12:20 P.M., I was still wandering the building, and the fire-breathing dragons started to look like I felt.

I went outside. The sun was peeking through small cracks in the cloud cover, and it was a little warmer.

I circled the Halls of the Mandarins, but no one seemed to want to make my acquaintance.

The rendezvous had not come off. I had about an hour and a half until the next one, during which time I could go and have my head examined.

I exited the walled city onto the river embankment where I’d noticed a few snack bars. I bought a liter of water and a rice ball wrapped in banana leaves.

I ate on a bench beside a young Viet couple and stared at the Perfume River, eating my ice cream with a plastic spoon and sipping tepid water out of a plastic bottle.

I bit into the sticky rice ball. This really sucked. James Bond never sat on a park bench with a hangover, sipping warm water and eating a sticky rice ball with his fingers.

The Perfume River was flowing fast because of the winter rains, and downriver I could see the three stone pylons where the old bridge once spanned the river. I’d spoken to a marine years ago, who’d been here during the battle, and he said that you could cross the river by walking on the dead bodies floating downstream. This, of course, was a typical marine exaggeration, but all war stories have a seed of truth before they grow into gigantic bullshit trees. I’ve never actually known a war story to get smaller with a retelling.

Two co-deps in pink ao dais walked along the river, and their long, straight hair, parted in the middle, reminded me of Susan. I stood, called out to them, and indicated my camera.

They stopped, giggled, and posed. I took a picture and said, “Chuc Mung Nam Moi.”

They returned the greeting and walked past me, still giggling and glancing over their shoulders.

This gave me a little lift.

Most people, I think, lead normal lives; I have not. In this whole world, at this moment, there couldn’t be more than a few dozen men and women, if even that, doing what I was doing now. Most secret rendezvous were of the sexual kind, and there were millions of them happening right now, and there would be millions more tomorrow, and the next day. And a few of those lovers would wind up dead, but most would wind up in each other’s arms.

Paul Brenner, on the other hand, was going to wind up either arrested, or in possession of a piece of information that could get him arrested, or killed, or, best scenario, might get him a few more bucks in retirement pay, and the lady of his dreams back in the States.

This had all seemed like a good idea back in Washington — well, not a good idea, but at least an idea that might do me some good, and it had.

I stared at the river, and the New City on the opposite shore. I watched a thousand people stroll by. Having missed the first rendezvous was sort of a reprieve, and I had a lot of legitimate reasons to abort the mission, Colonel Mang being not the least of those reasons. Time to go back to the hotel and clear out of this country.

I sat there.

At 1:30 P.M., I stood, re-entered the Citadel through the outer wall and into the Imperial Enclosure, then through the final wall into the Forbidden Purple City. It hit me then that the symbolism of the name had not been lost on the dramatically inclined dolts in Washington, and I knew that this was where I’d meet my contact and possibly my fate.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I entered the walled enclosure of the Forbidden Purple City, and walked through the vegetable plots and flower gardens toward the Royal Library, which, as I noticed before, was the only surviving structure within the inner walls.

A few tourists stood around the building, but most people were wandering through the gardens.

About twenty meters from the library, a Vietnamese man was squatting beside a garden, examining the flowers. He stood up and stepped on the path in front of me. He said in near perfect English, “Excuse me, sir. Are you in need of a guide?”

Before I could answer, he went on, “I am an instructor at Hue University, and I can show you the most important sites of the old walled city.” He added, “I am a very good guide.”

The man who was standing before me was in his mid-thirties, dressed in the standard black slacks, white shirt, and sandals. He wore a cheap plastic watch, like everyone here, and his face was unremarkable. I could have passed him a dozen times and not picked him out of a crowd. I said to him, “How much do you charge?”

He replied with the countersign, “Whatever you wish to pay.”

I didn’t respond.

He said, “I see you have a guidebook. May I look at it?”

I handed him the book, and he opened it. He said, “Yes, you are right here, within the Forbidden Purple City. You see?”

Without looking at the book, I replied, “I know where I am.”

“Good. This is an excellent place to begin our journey. My name is Truong Qui Anh. Please call me Mr. Anh. And how shall I address you?”

“Paul would be fine.”

“Mr. Paul. We Vietnamese are obsessed with forms of address.” He squatted again and said, “Look at this mimosa plant. You see, when I touch the leaves, they are touch-sensitive and they curl.”

My luck, I get a talker. While Mr. Anh was annoying the mimosa, I glanced around to see if anyone was watching.

Mr. Anh straightened up and flipped a few pages of my guidebook. “Is there anything specific you’d like to see?”

“No.”

“Then I will pick a few places. Are you interested in the emperors? The French colonial period? Perhaps the last war. Were you a soldier here?”

“I was.”

“Ah. Then you may be interested in the battle of Hue.”

I was starting to think this guy was really a guide, then, as he looked in my guidebook, he asked, “Mr. Paul, are you quite sure you weren’t followed here?”

“I’m quite sure. How about you, Mr. Anh?”

“I’m sure I’m alone.”

I said to him, “Why did you miss the first rendezvous?”

He replied, “Just to be on the safe side.”

I didn’t like that reply and asked him, “Did you think you were under surveillance?”

He hesitated, then replied, “No… to be honest with you, I lost my nerve.”

I nodded. “You got it back?”

He smiled in embarrassment. “Yes.” He added, “I’m here.”

I wasn’t going to tell him that I almost wasn’t here for Rendezvous Two myself.

I asked him, “Are you really a university instructor?”

“I am. I would be lying to you if I said I haven’t come to the attention of the authorities. I am a Viet-Kieu. Do you know what that means?”

“I do.”

“Good. But other than that, the authorities have no reason to watch me.”

“You’ve never done anything like this before?”

“Well, once, about a year ago. I like to help when I can. I’ve been back four years, and now and then I’m asked to do a small favor. Come, let’s take a walk.”

We walked together on the paths, and Mr. Anh said, “The Communists take all the credit for the rebuilding here, but the fact is, they let this entire imperial compound fall from ruin to decay because it was associated with the emperors. The Communists are suspicious of history, and whatever came before them. But Western organizations have put pressure on them to restore much of what was lost in the war. The West provides the money, of course, and the Communists reap the rewards of tourism.”

We were in the outer sanctum now, near the Emperor’s Palace, and Mr. Anh led me to a flower garden formed by the ruined foundation of a building. He said, “My father was a soldier with the army of South Vietnam. A captain. He was killed right here, where this garden is, and where an imperial building once stood. He was found after the battle in the rubble here along with fifteen other officers and men, their hands tied behind their backs, and bullet holes in their heads. Apparently, they were all executed by the Communists.”

I understood that Mr. Anh was establishing his anti-Communist credentials, but this story could be totally false and how would I know?

He said, “I was very young when he died, but I remember him. He was stationed here, where my family lives. We were home that evening, the evening of Tet 1968, across the river in the New City, when suddenly my father jumped out of his chair and shouted, ‘Gunfire!’ Well, my mother laughed and said, ‘Dear husband, those are fireworks.’ ”

I watched Mr. Anh as he stared down at the garden and relived this memory. He continued, “Father grabbed his rifle and started for the door, still wearing his sandals — his boots were in the corner. He was shouting for us to go into the bunker behind the house. We were all very frightened now because we could hear screaming in the street, and the fireworks had become gunshots.”

Mr. Anh stayed silent, staring at the ground, and he almost looked like a little boy staring at his shoes while he tried to get something out. He continued, “My father hesitated at the front door, then came back and embraced my mother and his mother, then the five children, my brothers and sisters. We were all crying, and he pushed us out the back door where the bunker was dug into the garden.”

Mr. Anh picked a flower, twirled it in his fingers, and threw it in the garden. He said, “We stayed in the bunker with two other families for a week until the American marines came. When we re-entered our house, we saw that all the Tet food had been taken, and we were very hungry. We saw, also, that our front door had been broken in, and many things were taken, but the house had survived. We never knew if Father had been taken prisoner in the house, or on his way to rejoin his soldiers. The attack was a complete surprise, and the Communists were within the city before the first shot was fired. Father would have liked to die with his soldiers, and at first we thought he had. But then in March, as the people and the soldiers were clearing rubble, they found the decomposed bodies of many massacres. My father wore dog tags, which the Americans had made for him, and that was how he was identified, right here, where a building once stood. The Communists must have shot them all in this building. I’m glad he was still wearing his dog tags so we had a body to bury. Most families did not.”

Mr. Anh stood there a moment, then walked away. I followed.

We left the walled Citadel and walked along the riverbank. Mr. Anh asked me, “So you were a soldier here?”

“First Cavalry Division, 1968, mostly up at Quang Tri.”

“Ah, so you know this area?”

“I remember some of it.”

“How does it seem to you? Vietnam.”

“Peaceful.”

“This is a country whose people have had their spirit crushed.”

“By whom?”

“The regime.”

“Why did you come back?”

“This is my country.” He asked me, “If America were a dictatorship, would you live there?”

Interesting question. I replied, “If an American dictatorship was as inefficient as this one, I might.”

Mr. Anh laughed, then said, “Well, they may appear to you as inefficient, but they did a thorough job of destroying all opposition to the regime.”

“They didn’t get you. Or a lot of other people I’ve met who seem to hate the regime.”

“Perhaps I should have said, organized opposition.” He added, “They have not won many hearts or minds.”

We passed the Phu Xuan Bridge, and Mr. Anh insisted he take my camera and shoot pictures of me with the river in the background, then from the opposite angle with the walls of the Citadel behind me. He didn’t look particularly nervous about this meeting, which could get him shot, but I could see a little anxiety in his eyes now and then.

I said, as he was shooting, “I’m assuming if they were going to arrest us, they would wait to see if we met anyone else.”

He handed me the camera and replied, “Yes, they would wait.”

“Are you frightened right now?”

“I am beyond frightened.” He smiled and added, “You know that we are inscrutable.”

We continued our walk along the river. All I wanted from Mr. Anh was the correct name of the village I needed to get to, some directions, and anything else he might have been told to pass on to me. But the man was in no hurry, and maybe it was a good idea to look like a tourist and guide.

Mr. Anh informed me, “I attended the University of California at Berkeley.”

“I thought you wanted to get away from the Communists.”

He sort of giggled and continued, “I lived mostly in northern California, but I took a year and traveled all over America. It’s an amazing country.”

I inquired, “Where did you get the money?”

“Your government.”

“That was nice of them. And now you’re paying them back.”

He stayed silent a moment, then replied, “Your government has a program to… how can I say this… to cultivate agents of influence, Vietnamese refugees, who, like myself, promise to go back to Vietnam for a period of at least five years.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“And you never will. But there are thousands of us who have come back to live, Viet-Kieus, whose sympathies lie more with Washington than Hanoi.”

“I see. And what are you supposed to do? Start a revolution?”

“I hope not.” He laughed again and said, “All we have to do is be here, and in subtle ways, influence the thinking of the people, and of the government, if possible.” He added, “Most Viet-Kieus are entrepreneurs, some like myself are academics, and a few have even entered the civil service, the police, and the army. Individually, we have no power, but as a whole, there are enough of us so that the Hanoi government hesitates before they take a step backward, toward socialism and isolation. Private enterprise, trade, and tourism are here to stay. You understand?”

“I think so. And do you put subversive thoughts into your students’ heads?”

“Certainly not in the classroom. But they know where to come when they want to hear the truth. Do you know that it is forbidden to mention that the Communists executed three thousand citizens of this city? Everyone knows that, everyone has lost a family member, but none of the textbooks mention this.”

“Well, Mr. Anh, if it makes you feel any better, American history books rarely mention the Hue massacre either. You want to read about massacres, go to the index under My Lai.”

“Yes, I know this.”

We were at the far corner of the wall, and on the riverbank was a huge marketplace, where Mr. Anh led me.

He found a small snack bar with tables and chairs near the river, and he said to me, “May I get you something to drink?”

“A Coke would be fine.”

He went to the snack stand.

I sat and looked around. It was hard in this country to determine if you were seeing the same people twice or three times, especially the men, who all favored black slacks and sandals with socks. Some of the shirts were different, but most were white. The hair came in one color and one style, and it was all on the guys’ heads; no beards or mustaches, except on very old men, and no one wore hats. A few of the men wore windbreakers, but all the windbreakers were the same style and color, which was tan. Some of the Viets, I’d noticed, wore reading glasses, but barely anyone wore glasses for distance, though all of the drivers should consider this.

A Viet crowd was a sea of sameness here in Hue, more so than in Saigon or Nha Trang.

Mr. Anh sat and gave me a can of Coke. He had hot tea in a bowl, and a paper bag of unshelled peanuts, which he seemed to enjoy crushing.

He finally got down to business and said, “You wish to visit a certain village, correct?”

I nodded.

He pushed a handful of unshelled nuts toward me and said, “The village is in the far north. North Vietnam.”

Bad luck. I was hoping it was in the former South Vietnam, and I was hoping it was nearby, but Tran Van Vinh was a North Vietnamese soldier, so what did I expect?

Mr. Anh pretended to be looking through my guidebook as he said, “This village is small, and does not appear on most maps. However, I have done some extensive but discreet research, and I believe this is the place you seek.”

“What if it’s not?”

He chewed on some peanuts and replied, “I’ve been in direct fax contact with someone in America, and your analysts there are in agreement that this village that I’ve found is the one you are seeking.” He added, “I am ninety percent certain this is the place you are looking for.”

“Close enough for government work.”

He smiled, then informed me, “Very few Westerners go to this area, and you would need a reason to be there.”

“Do I have to supply my own reason?”

Mr. Anh replied, “By luck, there is a place close to this hamlet that does draw some tourists. This place is called Dien Bien Phu. You have heard of this place?”

“The final battle of the French-Indochina War.”

“Yes. Military men of all nationalities go there to study this historic battlefield. So you should go there. When you have seen the museum and taken some photos, ask a local person where is this hamlet you are looking for. It is less than thirty kilometers north of Dien Bien Phu. But be careful who you ask. Up north, they report everything to the authorities.”

He sipped his tea, then continued, “I have been to Dien Bien Phu, and so I can tell you that there are many hill tribespeople who gather near the museum and in the market to sell their crafts to the tourists. The tribesmen are mostly H’mong and Tai. You will recall from your time here that the tribespeople have little loyalty to the Vietnamese government.” He added, “They are not anti-Communist, they are anti-Vietnamese. Therefore, you should direct your inquiries to a tribesman, not an ethnic Vietnamese. You may find a few tribesmen who speak some English, but mostly they speak French for the tourists who are mostly French. Do you speak French?”

“Un peu.”

“Bon. You should try to pass as French.” He added, “I think you can trust these people.”

“Tell me why I should trust you.”

Mr. Anh replied, “That would take some time, and whatever I say would not convince you. As I see it, Mr. Brenner, you have no choice.”

“How do you know my name?”

“If I needed to contact you at your hotel in an emergency.”

I informed Mr. Anh, “It’s very unusual in these situations for you to know who I am. I don’t mean to sound racist, but you’re not a native-born American, and you don’t qualify as a person who should know either my name or my destination.”

He looked at me a long time, then smiled and replied, “I still have relatives in the new country. Your government trusts me, but to be sure, they have arranged a family reunion for me in Los Angeles. I am to leave for the States on the same day you leave Hue. If I don’t show up in Los Angeles, they will assume I have betrayed them and you.”

“That’s a little late for me, partner.”

“I have no intention of betraying you, Mr. Brenner. In fact, I wish you a successful trip because if something happens to you, it will not go well for me or my family in Los Angeles.”

“I see. Well, we don’t shoot people.”

“That’s not what they told me.”

I didn’t reply to that. Bottom line here, the stakes were very high, whatever the game was, and Mr. Anh was either loyal to Uncle Sam, or scared shitless about his family, or both. They weren’t fucking around in Washington. I said, “Okay. Sorry if I insulted you.”

“Not at all. It was a legitimate and necessary question. Your life is at stake.”

“Thanks.”

“For you, it doesn’t matter if I’m loyal or under duress. I’m on your side.”

“Great.”

Mr. Anh stayed silent, chewing on his peanuts, then said, “Whatever your mission is, Mr. Brenner, I assume it is important enough for you to risk your life. If not, you should take the next plane to Hanoi or Saigon, and get out of this country. This can be a pleasant place for the average Western tourist — but if you are deviating from tourism, the government can be very unforgiving.” He added, “I have been asked to help, and I agreed, thereby putting my own safety in jeopardy. I don’t know what this is about, but I am one of those Vietnamese who still trust the Americans.”

“Well, I don’t.”

We both smiled.

I said to Mr. Anh, “Okay, if you are who you say you are, then thank you. If you’re not, then I suppose I’ll see you at my trial.”

“You would be lucky to get a trial. I’ll tell you something you may not know — the Hanoi government is obsessed with the FULRO. You have heard of this group — Front Unitié de Lutte des Races Opprimées — the United Front for the Struggle of the Oppressed Races?”

I recalled again the photos I saw in the American War Crimes Museum in Saigon. I said, “Yes. I’ve heard of the FULRO.”

Mr. Anh had more good news for me. He said, “You will be passing through FULRO territory. The Hanoi government is merciless in hunting down these guerrillas, and merciless in their treatment of Americans who have made contact with them. If this is your mission, and you are caught, you can expect to be tortured, then shot. I know this for a fact.”

Well, this was not my mission, but it occurred to me that I’d have a hard time explaining that if I were arrested. I always assumed that the worst that would happen if I were caught would be a few weeks or months of unpleasantness, followed by a diplomatic solution to the problem, and repa-triation back to the States. But if I put the FULRO into the equation, I might very well wind up being the last American MIA in Vietnam.

Mr. Anh was a bottomless well of interesting facts, and he said, “There have been CIA men, Special Forces men, and American freelance mercenaries who have gone into the remote areas of the country to aid the FULRO — most of them have never been heard of again.”

“Thanks for the encouragement.”

Mr. Anh looked at me and said, “This is an unhappy country, a country whose history has turned brother against brother, father against son. Here, in the south, you never know who to trust. But when you get to the north, it is much easier — trust no one.”

“Except the hill people.”

Mr. Anh did not respond. He sipped his tea and asked me, “Has your visit brought back memories?”

“Of course.”

“In this country, most of the war generation are dead, or have fled. Those who remember do not speak of it. The government celebrates every Communist victory, and they have changed each of their defeats into victories. If they had thirty years of victories, what took them so long to win the war?”

It seemed like a rhetorical question, but the answer was, “The winners write the history.”

Mr. Anh continued, “I had to go to America to learn the history of my own country. If you listen to Hanoi long enough, you start to doubt your own memory and your own sanity.”

“Same in Washington, Mr. Anh.”

“Well, but you make that a joke. Here, it is not a joke.”

“How many more years do you have here?”

“One.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. I may stay… things are changing for the better here…”

“I have an American friend who’s been here three years, and she can’t seem to leave.”

“Everyone has his or her own reasons for staying or for leaving. This is an interesting country, Mr. Brenner, a dynamic country in many ways, coming out of a long nightmare, filled with social and economic change. For many people, especially Americans, the transition is exciting, and offers many opportunities. An American expatriate once described Vietnam to me as being like the Wild West, a place where you leave your history behind, and where anything goes in pursuit of your fortune.”

“God help Vietnam.”

Mr. Anh smiled and added, “You could die of boredom in Japan, or Singapore, or Korea. Here, you won’t die of boredom.”

“That’s for sure.” I finished my Coke and looked at my watch.

Mr. Anh noticed and said to me, “The name of the village you seek is not Tam Ki, it is Ban Hin, in the province of Lai Chau.” He spelled it out for me and added, “It’s a difficult journey. The only air service is twice weekly from Hanoi, and you are not to go via Hanoi, according to what I have been told. In any case, the seats on the aircraft are usually booked weeks in advance. So you need to go by land. Unfortunately, there is no bus service from here, only from Hanoi. The roads, especially now with the rains, are treacherous, and you know by now that you are not allowed to rent a car yourself. You need a car and driver.”

“Maybe I’ll stay home.”

“That is your decision. But if it were me going, I would take a four-wheel drive and a good driver. The road distance from Hue to Dien Bien Phu is between nine hundred and a thousand kilometers, depending on your route.” He added, “Fortunately, the first five hundred kilometers will be on Highway One toward Hanoi. At some point south of Hanoi, you must choose a road to take you to Route 6, which will then take you northwest through the mountains to Dien Bien Phu.”

He found a map of northern Vietnam in the guidebook and pushed the book toward me. “Do you see Dien Bien Phu?”

I looked at the map and found it in the far northwestern part of the country, near Laos. I could also see Route 6, coming out of Hanoi and winding through the mountains to Dien Bien Phu. I asked, “How’s Route 6?”

“Not a good road at this time of year, or any time for that matter. The roads that lead you to Route 6 are worse.”

“Worse than New Jersey?”

He smiled and continued, “You will see on the map two or three roads leading from Highway One to Route 6 before you get to Hanoi. You must pick one, depending on weather conditions, the condition of the road, and perhaps other factors that only you can decide upon when the time comes for you to leave Highway One.” He looked at me.

I said, “I understand. Tell me what I should tell my driver about why I don’t want to go through Hanoi to get to Highway 6 to Dien Bien Phu?”

“Tell him you enjoy treacherous mountain roads in the rain.”

Not funny.

Mr. Anh said, “With luck, you can be in Dien Bien Phu in two days.”

I thought about this, and wondered what those idiots in Washington were thinking. I said, “Is it possible to hire a small plane from Hue”Phu Bai?”

“Not in this country, Mr. Brenner. Private flights are strictly forbidden.”

“How did the French get to Dien Bien Phu?”

He smiled. “They parachuted in.” He said, “There is an alternative route. You could fly from here to Vientiane, the capital of Laos, then fly to Luang Prabang in Laos, and you will be only about a hundred fifty kilometers from Dien Bien Phu. But you’ll first need a visa for Laos, and then you would have to cross the border back into Vietnam by road, and that could present a difficulty.”

“Well, thank you for the geography lesson, Professor. I’m sure I can get to Dien Bien Phu before my visa expires.”

He reiterated, “Hire a very good private driver with a good four-wheel drive. You should make it.” He added, “Do not go through Vidotour.”

“I know that.”

Mr. Anh played with his pile of broken peanut shells and said to me, “I have been told to pass on some instructions.”

I didn’t reply.

Mr. Anh said, “If you find this person you are looking for, you are to offer to buy all his war souvenirs. If he is dead, document his death, and make the same offer to his family. If he is alive, you are to photograph him, and establish his residence with maps and photographs. This person may be contacted at a later date for whatever purpose your government needs him for.”

Again, I didn’t reply.

Mr. Anh seemed a bit uncomfortable about something, and he was avoiding my eyes when he said, “Or you may wish to finalize the matter yourself, thereby saving the trouble of a further visit to this individual.”

I said to Mr. Anh, “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

He did, and I said to him, “I’m not quite sure I understand what that means. Do you?”

“No, I don’t, Mr. Brenner. They said you would understand.”

“Did they? What if I misunderstood and thought they meant I should kill him, when they meant something else?”

Mr. Anh did not reply to that directly but said, “After a long, bitter war, there are many grudges left to be settled.”

I didn’t think this had anything to do with an old grudge, or a payback for something that happened in the secret world of espionage or the Phoenix assassination program, or anything like that. Tran Van Vinh was a simple soldier who’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to see. But Mr. Anh assumed that it had to do with the dirty, back-alley war, which was a logical assumption; or that’s what he’d been told.

Mr. Anh concluded with, “In any case, your mission is then complete, and you are to go directly to your next destination with the items you have acquired. This message is verbatim, and I know nothing further.”

I didn’t reply.

Mr. Anh said, “You are to stay here tonight and tomorrow night, as you know, then make your way to Dien Bien Phu, and the village in question. I am to contact you at your hotel if there is a change in plans, or if I have any further information for you. I have a secure means of informing someone in Saigon that this meeting was successful, and you have the opportunity now to give me a message that I will pass on.”

I replied, “Just tell them that I understand my mission, and my duty, and that justice will be done.”

“Very well. Should I leave, or do you wish to go first?”

“I’ll go.” I took some peanuts and put them in my pocket. I said to Mr. Anh, “I’m leaving this guidebook with you. What I want you to do is to return it to my hotel on the morning I’m to depart for Dien Bien Phu, which is the same morning you are departing for Los Angeles. In that way, I’ll know you haven’t been arrested, and that my mission is not compromised. If I don’t receive the book, I reserve the right to leave the country. You can pass that on.”

He said, “I understand.”

I stood and took ten dollars out of my pocket and put it on the table. “Thank you for an interesting tour.”

He stood, and we shook hands. He said to me, “Have a safe journey, sir. Happy New Year.”

“Same to you.”

I left and made my way through the market, out onto the river walk, and I headed toward the bridge to the new city.

It was not yet four o’clock on New Year’s Day, the first day of the Year of the Ox. It might also be the last day of the year for the jackass, meaning me. How do I get myself involved in things like this? For a take-charge kind of guy, I keep falling into vats of shit: career-limiting homicide cases, dangerous assignments to hostile countries, and complicated love affairs.

I got onto the pedestrian walk of the Trang Tien Bridge, and I stopped halfway. I cracked open some peanuts and dropped the shells into the river. I popped a few peanuts in my mouth and chewed.

The sky was a layer of clouds and a few raindrops fell. The air was damp and cool, and the Perfume River ran swiftly to the sea.

Well, I thought, I hadn’t misunderstood Mr. Conway at Dulles, or Mr. Anh in Hue. Washington wanted Tran Van Vinh dead, and they’d be happy if I killed him. And they didn’t even bother to give me a reason, beyond national security, which could mean anything and usually did.

The reason the geniuses didn’t tell me ahead of time why this guy needed to be whacked was because if he was already dead, then I would have information I didn’t need.

But for some reason, they seemed to think that if and when I met Mr. Tran Van Vinh, I’d know the reason, and I’d do what I had to do.

Whatever this poor bastard saw in the ruins of Quang Tri during Tet of 1968 was going to come back to haunt him, and to kill him. And that really wasn’t fair, if he had indeed survived the whole war and had grown old… well, about my age, which is not old, but mature.

I tried to bring all my considerable powers of deductive reasoning to this puzzle, and I was getting close to something, but it kept slipping away.

The thing that was easy to deduce was this: If what Mr. Vinh saw was going to get him killed, then what Mr. Vinh told me could also get me killed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I sat in the cocktail lounge of the Century Riverside Hotel sipping a Scotch and soda while the little guy at the piano was playing “Strangers in the Night.”

It was ten after six, and the place was filled with Westerners chatting away while pretty cocktail waitresses in short skirts hurried around getting drink orders wrong.

I started wondering if Susan had gotten herself re-pissed and was going to stand me up. Women don’t care where they are when they’re pissed off at the guy they’re with. I’ve had women make scenes in Soviet Moscow, East Berlin, and other places where it’s not a good idea to attract attention, with no regard to their surroundings or the situation; when they’re pissed, they’re pissed.

Another possibility was that Susan had been picked up for questioning. After that little scene this morning at the police station, I wouldn’t be surprised if they decided to harass me through her. Despite our charade, they knew we were together.

A bigger anxiety, however, was the gun, and the possibility that someone had seen her burying it. But even if the cops had been alerted, they wouldn’t make a move until someone came to dig it up, which was why I intended to leave it there.

I ordered another Scotch. The three veterans were a few tables away, and they’d acquired some company in the form of three women in their mid-twenties, young enough to be their daughters. These guys may have once been officers, but they were not gentlemen; they were pigs.

The women looked and acted like Americans, but beyond that, I couldn’t tell much about them, except that they were tourists, not expats, and they liked middle-aged guys with bucks.

Anyway, it was 6:30, and I was getting a little concerned. This is why it’s better to travel alone, especially when you’re on an assignment that could get dicey. I have enough trouble watching my own ass without worrying about a civilian.

But maybe she wasn’t a civilian. This got me thinking about Mr. Anh, who, like Susan, was doing a little favor for Uncle Sam. This place was becoming the East Berlin of the post”Cold War world: shadowy people running around doing deals, doing favors, keeping their eyes and ears open. The CIA must feel re-energized now that they had a place where they could stir up the shit again.

The Americans, of course, don’t like losing, and they’d learned a good postwar lesson from the Germans and the Japanese; if you lose the war, buy the winner’s country.

Susan appeared at the door and looked around. She spotted me as I stood, and she smiled. You can always tell when someone is sincerely happy to see you by how they smile when they spot you in a crowd.

She walked over to the cocktail table, and I saw she was wearing black jeans, which I hadn’t seen before, and a white silk V-neck sweater, which I also hadn’t seen.

She gave me a big hug and kiss and said, “I knew you’d returned safely because I checked with the desk.”

“Safe and sound.”

She sat, and I sat across from her. She asked, almost excitedly, “So, how did it go? You had the rendezvous?”

“Yes. It went fine. What did you do today?”

“Shopping and sightseeing. So, who met you?”

“A Eurasian woman named Dep Throat.”

“Come on, Paul. This is exciting. Was it a guy? An American? A Viet?”

“A guy. And that is all I’m saying.”

“Do you know where you have to go next?”

I didn’t seem to be getting through to her. I said, “Yes, and that’s the end of the conversation.”

“Is it far from here?”

“What are you drinking?”

“San Miguel.”

I signaled the waitress and ordered a San Miguel beer.

Susan asked, “Where did you meet this guy? Where is Number 32? I’ll bet that refers to the map in the guidebook.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“I slept like a baby until noon. Did you go to the Immigration Police?”

“Yes.”

“Did it go all right?”

“Yes.” I added, “Actually, we had some words.”

“Good. When you’re nice to them, they think you’re up to something. When you mouth off, they figure you’re clean.”

“I know that. I was a cop.”

“I stayed away from the Citadel, as you asked, and now you have to tell me where you met this guy.”

“Obviously, I met him in the Citadel.”

“Do you think you were followed?”

“I wasn’t. I don’t know about him. Did you buy that outfit today?”

“Yes. You like it?”

“Very nice.”

“Thank you.”

Her beer came, and she poured it into a glass. We touched glasses, and she said, “Sorry about last night. You don’t need the hassle.”

“That’s okay. I did the same thing to you about Bill.”

“You did. I got rid of him.”

I didn’t reply.

I noticed the three vets again, and they were looking at Susan even though they already had three babes. What swine.

“What are you looking at?”

“Three Americans over there. Former army or marines. I saw them here yesterday and also at dinner. They’re eyeing you.”

“They’re cute.”

“They’re pigs.”

“The women seem to be having a good time.”

“They’re pigs, too.”

“I think you’re jealous.”

“No, I’m not. You’re the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“You’re so sweet.” She changed the subject back to business and asked, “So, do you know how to get to this place you’re supposed to go to?”

“I think so.”

There was a good deal of background noise in the lounge, so no one could overhear us, and the piano player was playing Tony Bennett’s “Once Upon a Time.” I decided that the time had come to get at the bottom of some things that could affect my health. I said to her, “Now, let me ask you a few questions. Look at me and keep eye contact.”

She put down her beer and sat up in her chair. She looked at me.

“Who are you working for?”

She replied, “I work for American-Asian Investment Corporation. Sometimes I do favors for the American consulate in Saigon, and the embassy in Hanoi.”

“Have you ever done favors for the resident CIA guy in Saigon or Hanoi?”

“Saigon. Just once.”

“You mean now.”

“Yes.”

“Do you get paid?”

“Expenses.”

“Did you have formal training?”

“Yes. A month at Langley.”

Which explained the trip to Washington. I asked, “Is American-Asian Investment a CIA front?”

“No. It’s a real investment company. But it is a vetted facility.”

“Anyone else at AAIC doing favors?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“What were your instructions regarding me?”

“Just meet and greet.”

“They didn’t tell you to pump me?”

“No. Why bother? Are you going to tell me anything about why you’re here?”

“No. Did they tell you to travel with me?”

“No. That was my idea.”

“Right now, Susan, are you on the job or off the job?”

“Off the job.”

“I’m believing everything you say. You understand that? If you say it, it’s the truth.”

“It is the truth.”

“Are you in love with me?”

“You know I am.” She smiled for the first time and said, “I did fake one orgasm.”

I tried not to smile and asked, “Do you know anything about my assignment that I don’t know?”

She didn’t reply.

“Tell me.”

“I can’t. I can’t lie to you, so I can’t say anything.”

“Let’s try again. What do you know about this?”

She took a sip of beer, cleared her throat, and said, “I don’t know what your purpose here is, but I think the CIA does. They certainly weren’t going to tell me. I think everyone has little pieces of this, and no one is telling anyone else what they know.”

That was probably true. I wondered if even Karl had the whole picture. I said to Susan, “Meet and greet doesn’t quite cut it.”

“Well, obviously there was more to it. I was asked to brief you about the country without it sounding like I was briefing you. More like acclimating you and making sure you were good to go.” She added, “You figured that out.”

“Okay, aside from the resident CIA guy in Saigon, did you speak to anyone from the American embassy in Hanoi?”

“Yes, I did. The American military attaché. Colonel Marc Goodman. He flew to Saigon and spoke to me.”

“About what?”

“He just wanted to be sure I had the right stuff.”

“To do what?”

“To… win your confidence.”

“I’m not getting a clear picture.”

“You’re putting me on the spot.”

“My life is on the spot, lady. Talk to me.”

“I wasn’t supposed to travel with you. But I was supposed to offer to meet you here in Hue, to tell you I had to go there anyway on business or whatever. Then I was to say I would meet you again in Hanoi.”

“What if I didn’t like you?”

“Most men like me.”

“I’m sure. And what was the point of you meeting me here in Hue?”

“To see if I could help you, to report on your health, your attitude, any problems with the police, the outcome of your rendezvous, and so forth. You know that.”

“Okay. Did this military attaché guy, Colonel Goodman, and the CIA guy talk to each other in Saigon?”

“They did. But I wasn’t there for that meeting.”

“You understand that a military attaché is actually Military Intelligence?”

She nodded.

“Who’s the CIA guy in Saigon?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Apparently everyone was in on this, but me. Army Intelligence and the CIA were talking to each other about a CID/FBI case that they weren’t supposed to know anything about; but obviously they did. What was the connection? Actually, the more I thought about Mr. Conway at Dulles, the more he seemed less FBI and more military; but they wanted to give the appearance of FBI involvement so that it seemed more like a homicide case and less like an international problem. Not only was Colonel Mang running around passing himself off as one thing when he was another, but so was Mr. Conway. And so was Susan. By this time, I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that I was working for Colonel Mang.

“Paul?”

“What?”

“Are you angry with me?”

“Not yet. Okay, so when they motivated you to use your many charms to win my confidence, what did they tell you to motivate you?”

“National security. My patriotic duty. Stuff like that.”

“What else?”

“Do you still love me?”

“More than ever. What else?”

“I’ve already told you a few times. It has to do with the emerging relationship between America and Vietnam. Business. Oil. Trade. Cheap labor. They don’t want it screwed up. Neither do I.”

“Who’s trying to screw it up?”

“I told you that, too. The hard-liners in Hanoi, and maybe in Washington.”

“And did they tell you that my mission was going to help or hurt that cause?”

“They indicated that you could help.”

“I guess they did, or you’d have already pushed me off the roof of the Rex.”

“Don’t be silly. I was told to help you.”

“If I told you what I was doing here, do you think that my little piece of the puzzle and the little piece of the puzzle that you have might fit together?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to swap pieces of the puzzle? You go first.”

“I have no need to know why you’re here, and no desire to know.”

“Or, you already know.”

“I don’t. Are you pissed off at me?”

“Not yet.”

“Still love me?”

“More than ever.”

“Good. Can I have a cigarette?”

“Sure. Fire away.”

She pulled a pack out of her purse and lit up. She took a long drag and exhaled, then sat back and crossed her legs. She said to me, “It has to do with Cam Ranh Bay.”

“Okay.”

“We built it, we want it back.”

“I know that.”

“The Philippines has kicked us out, and the Japanese are moving to reduce our presence. The Russian lease on Cam Ranh Bay expires in a few years, and they’re paying rent under the old 1975 lease price in new rubles, which are almost worthless. Hanoi wants them out.”

“Real money talks English.”

“Right. We’re talking about billions of greenback dollars to Hanoi for a long-term lease.”

“Go on.”

“The Viets hate and fear the Chinese. Always have. The Americans fear the Chinese. Strategic Pentagon projections show us at war with Red China within twenty years. We’re short on military bases in this area. Plus, there’s a lot of offshore oil here.”

“So, this isn’t about coffee, rubber, or betel nuts?”

“No. Oil and military bases.”

“Got it. Continue.”

“The Pentagon and others in Washington are very excited about this. The present administration is not. They don’t want to piss off the Chinese, who would go totally ballistic if we set up a military base at Cam Ranh Bay.”

I nodded. I now had a little piece of the puzzle, but it didn’t fit my piece. I mean, it must, but there was another piece in between.

Susan continued, “Hanoi is willing to sign Cam Ranh Bay over to us, despite some hard-line opposition from the old Reds who still hate us. But it’s the present American government who doesn’t have the balls to go for it, despite nearly everyone in the Pentagon and the intelligence community saying go for it. It’s crucial in case of a future war. It’s good for us, and good for the Vietnamese.”

I didn’t reply, but the thought of American soldiers, sailors, and airmen back on Vietnamese soil was mind-boggling.

She sipped her beer and lit another cigarette. She said to me, “You surprised me when you asked Captain Vu about American warships in the area.”

“This is not rocket science. It’s Political Science 101. Some of it’s been in the news.”

“Give yourself more credit, Paul.”

“Okay. Let me guess how you know all this. You’re the CIA station chief.”

She smiled. “No. I’m just a kid, a spoiled, upper-class MBA expat, looking for adventure.” She put her cigarette in the ashtray and without looking at me said, “The CIA station chief in Saigon is Bill Stanley. Please don’t tell anyone I told you.”

We made eye contact, and I asked her, “Does Bank of America know about that?”

“He doesn’t work for Bank of America. You arrived in Saigon on a weekend so you couldn’t check things out, but I did take you to my office.”

“Yes, you did. And are you and Bill… involved?”

“That part is true. Was true.”

“Are you having fun?”

“Not if you’re angry at me.”

“Me? Why should I be angry at you?”

“You know. Because I lied to you about some things.”

“Really? Are you still?”

“I’ve told you everything I know. They’re going to fire me.”

“You should be so lucky. Tell me why I’m here.”

“I really don’t know.”

“Does Bill know?”

“He must know something.”

“But he didn’t share that with you?”

“He did not.”

“Why were you supposed to meet me in Hanoi?”

“I’m not sure. They said you might need someone to talk to in Hanoi that you could trust. Not an embassy person. They said if you returned from your mission, you might be… upset by what you discovered.” She added, “I’m supposed to tell the embassy your state of mind, what you’re thinking.”

“And you just let that statement slide by?”

“I understand that the less I know, the better.”

“Where did you get the gun?”

“From my company safe. That was the truth.”

“Do you realize that about half of what you’ve said to me over the last week has been lies, half lies, and bullshit?”

She nodded.

“So? Why should I believe anything you say now?”

“I won’t lie to you anymore.”

“I really don’t care.”

“Don’t say that. I was just doing a job. Then I fell in love. Happens all the time.”

“Does it?”

“Not to me. But to people. I really hated myself for not being honest with you. But I thought you figured it all out anyway. You’re very bright.”

“Don’t try to butter me up.”

“You are pissed at me.”

“You bet.”

“Do you still love me?”

“No.”

“Paul? Look at me.”

I looked at her.

She gave me a sort of sad smile and said, “It’s not fair, you know, if the gods in Washington come between us. If we part, we’ll both turn to stone.”

She had a point there about Washington, and I suppose you could say we were both being manipulated and lied to. I said to her, “Of course I love you.”

She smiled.

I asked her, “What orgasm did you fake?”

She smiled wider. “You tell me.” She added, “I won’t do it again.”

So, we sat there, had another round, and retreated into our own thoughts, trying to figure it all out.

Finally, she asked me, “Did you get any messages today?”

“No.”

“Why do they want you to drop me?”

“Don’t know. Do you know?”

“Probably because they don’t like what happened between us. They really don’t want us pooling information.” She added, “I’m supposed to be working for them, but they don’t trust me anymore. And neither do you.”

I didn’t reply to that last statement and said, “I think on a personal level, your friend Bill was pushing Washington to push me to dump you.”

“I’m sure of it. He’s really pissed at you.” She laughed.

“He should thank me for getting his headache.”

“That’s not nice.”

I didn’t reply. I asked her, “Did you get a message?”

“Yes. They know I’m here, of course. Message from Bill ordering me to return to Saigon. Business jargon. Said I’d be fired and disciplined and so forth if I didn’t report to work Monday. There’s a ticket waiting for me at Hue”Phu Bai Airport.”

“You should go straighten that out.”

“I should, but I’m not. I want to go with you to Quang Tri.”

“Fine. I booked a four-wheel drive and driver, 8 A.M., to take us to the A Shau Valley, Khe Sanh, and Quang Tri. I requested Mr. Cam.”

She laughed and said, “Mr. Cam is home now in front of the family altar, asking the gods to erase us from his memory.”

“I hope so.”

“Paul?”

“Yes?”

“Can I give you some advice?”

“Is it free?”

“Yes. And from the heart. Don’t go where they’re sending you. Come back to Saigon with me.”

“Why?”

“It’s dangerous. You know that. That’s not what I’m supposed to tell you. That’s from me personally.”

I nodded. “Thank you. But as they may have told you, I’m counter-suggestible.”

“I don’t know about that. But I know that you think this is a personal test of your courage, and maybe you have a lot of other personal reasons for pushing on. This is no longer about duty, honor, and country, if it ever was. Well, you’ve proven your courage to me, and I’ll write a full report about Highway One and everything else that’s happened. You have to make the decision to abort. We’ll go to Quang Tri and the A Shau Valley tomorrow and Khe Sanh, and you’ll put that to rest. Then we’ll go back to Saigon together, take a bunch of crap from everyone, then… you go home.”

“And you?”

She shrugged.

I thought about that tempting offer for about half a second, then replied, “I’m finishing the job. End of conversation.”

“Can I go with you?”

I looked at her and said, “If you thought Highway One was bad, wait until you see this trip.”

“I really don’t care. I hope by now you know I can handle it.”

I didn’t reply.

She informed me, “You’ll increase your chances of success by about five hundred percent if I’m along.”

“But can I double my money?”

“Sure. Look, Paul, there’s no downside to having me along.”

“That’s a joke — right? Look, I appreciate your willingness to risk jail and maybe even your life to be with me, but—”

“I don’t want to spend the next week worrying about you. I want to be with you.”

“Susan… this may sound very chauvinistic, but there are times when a man—”

“Cut the crap.”

“Okay. How’s this? I keep thinking of those photos in your office, and sometimes I see you as Mr. and Mrs. Weber’s little girl again, and I see the rest of your family back in Massachusetts, and even though I don’t know them, I could never face them or face myself if something happened to you because of me.”

“That’s a very nice thought. Actually sensitive. But you know, Paul, if something happened between here and Hanoi, it would most probably happen to both of us. We’d have adjoining cells, adjoining hospital beds, or matching air shipment coffins. You won’t have to explain anything to my parents, or to anyone.”

I looked at my watch. “I’m hungry.”

“You can’t have dinner until you say yes.”

I stood. “Let’s go.”

She stood. “Okay, you can have dinner. I knew I should have asked you when we were in bed. I can get anything I want out of you in bed.”

“Probably.”

We went outside, and it was raining, so we took a taxi across the river into the Citadel where Susan said she’d made a dinner reservation.

The restaurant was called Huong Sen and was a sixteen-sided pavilion built on stilts in the middle of a lotus pond.

We got a table by the rail, ordered drinks, watched the rain fall on the water, and listened to bullfrogs croaking. It was a very nice, atmospheric place, lit with colored lanterns and candles on the tables. Romantic.

Neither of us mentioned a word of business or anything that had been said in the cocktail lounge.

We had dinner and talked about home and about friends and family, but not about us or about any future plans.

Somewhere back there in the cocktail lounge, I think I used the “L” word, and I was trying to remember what I’d said. Maybe I didn’t actually use it, but I remembered agreeing to it.

Susan was staring out at the rain on the pond, and I looked at her profile.

I should have been incredibly angry at her; but I wasn’t. I shouldn’t trust another word she said; but I did. Physically, she was flawless, and intellectually she gave me a run for my money. If I were writing an officer’s evaluation report on her, I’d say: brave, intelligent, resourceful, decisive, and loyal. Divided loyalty, to be sure, but loyal.

But was I in love?

I think so. But what happened here could probably not happen elsewhere, and maybe could not be transplanted. And then there was Cynthia.

Susan turned and saw me staring at her. She smiled. “What are you thinking about?”

“You.”

“And I’m thinking about you. I’m trying to think of a happy ending.”

I didn’t reply.

“Can you think of a happy ending?”

“We’ll work on it.”

We looked at each other, and we both probably had the same thought that the chances of a happy ending were not good.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The following morning, Monday, Susan and I waited in the hotel lobby for our car and driver. We both wore jeans, long-sleeve shirts, and walking shoes. Susan had her tote bag filled with things for the road.

The lobby was full of tourists waiting for their buses, cars, and guides. Hue was a tourist mecca, I realized, a destination between Saigon and Hanoi, and as it turned out, a good place for my rendezvous.

She asked me, “How are you getting to where you need to go tomorrow?”

“I don’t know yet. We’ll talk about it later.”

“Does that mean you’d like my help?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll give you some advice now — do not hire a car with a Vidotour driver. You might as well have Colonel Mang along.”

“Thank you. I already figured that out.”

We walked outside, and it was another gray, overcast day, cool and damp, but no rain.

Susan said to me, “You really pumped me last night.”

“I was very horny.”

“I wasn’t talking about that. I meant in the lounge.”

“Oh. That was overdue, darling.”

An open white RAV4 pulled into the circular driveway and stopped. A guy got out and spoke to the doorman, who pointed to us.

The driver came over to us, and Susan spoke to him in Vietnamese. They chatted for a minute, probably about price, which is Susan’s favorite subject with the Viets.

He was a man of about forty, and I’d gotten into the habit of matching the age of a Viet with his or her age in relation to the war. This guy had been in his mid-teens when the war ended, and he may have carried a rifle, either for the South Vietnamese local defense forces, made up mostly of kids and old men, or for the Viet Cong, who had lots of boys and girls in their ranks.

Susan introduced me to our driver, whose name was Mr. Loc. He didn’t seem particularly friendly and didn’t offer to shake my hand. Most Viets, I noticed, in their dealings with Westerners, were either very slick, or very good-natured. Westerners equaled money, but beyond that, the average Nguyen was polite until you pissed him off. Mr. Loc did not look or act like a hired driver; Mr. Loc reminded me of the close-faced guys I’d seen in the Ministry of Public Security in Saigon. In my job as an army criminal investigator, I assume many roles, and I’m good at it; Mr. Loc wasn’t very good at getting into his role as a driver, any more than Colonel Mang was at trying to pretend he was an immigration cop.

Susan said to me, “Mr. Loc needs to know where we’re going now so he can telephone his company.”

I spoke directly to Mr. Loc and said, “A Shau, Khe Sanh, Quang Tri.”

He barely acknowledged this and went into the hotel.

I said to Susan, “I booked this through the hotel, who, as you know, are required to use Vidotour. Ask that clown for his business card.”

She nodded in understanding, and when Mr. Loc came out of the hotel, she asked for his card. He shook his head as he said something to her.

She walked over to me and said, “He says he forgot his cards. The Viets who have business cards are proud of them, and they’d forget their cigarettes before they forgot their cards.”

“Okay, so we’re under the eye. Ask him if he has a map.”

She asked him, and without a word of reply, he took a map from the front seat and gave it to me. I opened it and spread it on the hood.

As Mr. Loc stood nearby, I said to Susan, “Here’s the A Shau Valley, due west of Hue. The road ends in the middle of the valley at this place called A Luoi, near the Laotian border, where I air-assaulted in by helicopter in late April ’68. From A Luoi is this dotted line that may or may not be passable. It was part of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Ask Mr. Loc if we can take that to Khe Sanh.”

She asked him, though he probably understood what I was saying. He said something to Susan, and she said to me, “Mr. Loc says the road is mostly dirt, but as long as it doesn’t rain, we can make it to Khe Sanh.”

“Good. Ask him if we can all speak English and stop pretending.”

“I think the answer is no.”

“Right. Okay, after A Shau, we travel what looks like seventy klicks north to Khe Sanh, where I also air-assaulted in by helicopter, in early April ’68. Then we head east, back toward the coast on Highway 9 along the DMZ, and arrive at Quang Tri City, where my old base camp was located, and where I was stationed during most of the Tet Offensive in January and February 1968. So, we’re traveling back in time in reverse chronological order.” I added, “We’ll do it in that order because I wouldn’t want to be in the A Shau Valley when it gets dark.”

She nodded.

I said, “It’s a total of about two hundred kilometers, then due south again for about eighty kilometers, and we’re back in Hue.” I folded the map and threw it on the front seat.

Susan lit a cigarette, looked at me, and asked, “Did you ever think you’d be back this way?”

I moved away from the vehicle and from Mr. Loc, and thought about that. I replied, “Not at first. I mean, when I left here for the last time in ’72, the war was still going on. Then, for a decade after, the Communists had a tight grip on this country, and Americans weren’t exactly welcome. But… by the late ’80s, when things here loosened up, and as I got older, I started to think about going back. Veterans were starting to return, and almost no one I knew regretted the trip.”

“And here you are.”

“Right. But this wasn’t my idea.”

“Neither were the other two times.”

I replied, “Actually, I volunteered for my second tour.”

“Why?”

“A combination of things… good career move — I was a military policeman by then, and not a front-line infantryman. Also, things were getting a little rocky at home, and my wife wrote a letter to the Pentagon on my stationery saying I wanted to go back to ’Nam.”

Susan laughed. “That’s silly.” She looked at me and said, “So, basically, you went to Vietnam to get away from your marriage.”

“Right. I took the coward’s way out.” I thought a moment and said, “Also… I had a brother, Benny, who… they had an unwritten policy of one male family member at a time in a combat zone… and Benny was very accident-prone, so I bought him some time. Fortunately, the American involvement in the war ended before he got his orders to go. He wound up in Germany. I don’t like to tell that story because it makes me sound more noble than I am.”

She put her hand on my shoulder and said, “That was a very brave and noble thing.”

I ignored that and said, “The little bastard kept sending me pictures of himself in beer halls with fräuleins on his lap. And my mother, who is totally clueless, kept telling everyone that Benny got sent to Germany because he took a year of German in high school. And Paul took French, so they sent him to Vietnam, where she’d heard they spoke French. She thought Vietnam was near Paris.”

Susan was laughing.

“Ready to roll?”

“Yes.”

She put out her cigarette, and we got into the back seat of the RAV. Susan asked me, “Are your parents alive?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to meet them.”

“I’ll give you their address.”

“And Benny?”

“Still leading a charmed life. I also have another brother, Davey, who still lives in South Boston.”

“I’d like to meet all of them.”

I tried to picture the Webers of Lenox getting together for a few beers with the Brenners of South Boston, and I wasn’t getting a good image of that gathering.

Mr. Loc got behind the wheel and off we went.

We drove along the tree-shaded river road past a few hotels and restaurants, past the Cercle Sportif, and the Ho Chi Minh Museum, and within a few minutes, we were out of the small city and into the low rolling hills, heading south.

I could see the tombs of the emperors scattered around, walled compounds surrounded by huge trees in park-like settings. Susan took a picture from the moving vehicle.

Most tourists, I suspected, came out of the city to see the tombs and pagodas, but I was going elsewhere. I said to Susan, “You didn’t have to come with me. There are better things to see here than battlefields.”

She took my hand and said, “I saw most of the sights when I was here last time. This time I want to see what you saw.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to see what I saw.

The road continued south, through the necropolis, then swung west. Since it was the Tet holiday week, there was not much traffic on the road. Within the villages, I could see kids playing, and whole families gathered outside, talking and eating under trees.

I took the map from the passenger seat and looked at it. This was basically a road map, and not a very good one. The maps I’d used were detailed army terrain maps, partly taken from the French military maps. The army maps were covered with plasticine to survive the climate, and we used grease pencils to show the American firebases, airfields, base camps, and other installations. Army Intelligence would give us updates on the suspected locations of Viet Cong and North Vietnamese army units, which we’d note on the map. I don’t know where they got this information, but most of our firefights were in places where the enemy wasn’t supposed to be.

I looked up ahead and saw we were approaching the Perfume River. There was no bridge, according to the map, and no bridge in reality, in case I was expecting a pleasant surprise.

Mr. Loc drove onto a barge that could accommodate two vehicles. We were the only car waiting, and the ferryman said something to us. Susan said to me, “We can pay for two vehicles, or we could be here all day. Two bucks.”

I gave the ferryman two bucks, and we got out of the RAV. Susan and I stood on the deck as the ferry made its way across the Perfume River. She took a picture from the boat.

I said to Susan, “Ask Mr. Loc if you can take his picture.”

She asked him, and he shook his head and replied in a sharp tone.

Susan said to me, “He does not want his picture taken.”

I looked across the river to the opposite shore and said to Susan, “The Army Corps of Engineers used to bridge these rivers with pontoon bridges. Chuck, however, didn’t like to see standing bridges, and he’d load up a bamboo raft with high explosives and wait for a convoy to cross. Then he’d float along with the other craft, trying to look like Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn, and at the last minute, he’d set a timer, abandon ship, and swim underwater with a breathing reed. Usually, though, we could see this coming, and we’d blow Chuck and his raft out of the water before he got to the bridge.”

Susan had no comment.

I added, “This was why we all liked bridge duty. It was one of the more interesting games we played.” I looked at Susan, who was processing this, and said, “I guess you had to be there.”

She asked, “Paul, now that you’re grown up and mature, when you look back on this, do you see it as… well, not within the normal range of behavior?”

“It seemed normal at the time. I mean, most of what we did, said, and thought was appropriate for the situation. Any other kind of behavior that you’d call normal would be considered abnormal here. Getting excited about sitting on a bridge all day, waiting to blow Charlie out of the water — instead of patrolling the jungle all day — is, I think, quite normal. Don’t you agree?”

“I guess. I can see that.”

“Good.” I admitted, however, “It does seem a little weird, now that I think about it.”

We reached the opposite bank, and we got back into the vehicle.

Mr. Loc drove off the barge onto the road, and we continued on, west toward the hills and mountains looming in the distance.

We were making only about fifty KPH, and it would take us over an hour to get to the A Shau Valley, if the road stayed this good.

The countryside was hilly, but the Viets had managed to extend their rice paddy cultivation through a series of dikes and waterwheels. The countryside looked prosperous and more inhabited than I remembered it.

We came to a small town called Binh Bien, which was the last town on this road. Beyond this was what we used to call Indian Territory.

The road rose, and before long, we were in the hills, which were covered with scrub brush and red shale.

I said to Susan, “We had to dig in every night, and we’d find a hill like that one over there with the steepest sides possible, and the best fields of fire. This is mostly shale, and it would take us hours with these little entrenching tools just to scratch out a shallow sleeping hole that would also become our firing hole, if we got hit during the night. The hole looked like a shallow grave, which it sometimes became. We’d set out trip flares and claymore mines around our perimeter. The claymore had a hand-squeeze generator attached to an electrical wire that put out enough juice to blow the detonator. The claymore mine fired hundreds of ball bearings downrange, like a giant shotgun blast, and anyone within about a hundred feet to the front of it would be mowed down. It was a very effective defense weapon, and if it weren’t for the trip flares and the claymores, most of us would not have slept for the entire year we were here.”

She nodded.

The road started to twist through a very narrow pass with steep slopes rising on either side, and the vegetation became thicker. A mountain stream ran along the road, and I could imagine that it flooded during the monsoon, making the road impassable.

I said to Susan, “This is the only way into the valley from Vietnam, but the Americans never went in overland because this pass was an ambush waiting to happen. We flew in by helicopter and brought everything we needed by air.”

The blacktop had mostly disappeared, and as we got higher, the clouds drifted across the slopes, a mist rose off the ground, and it was getting cold. Mr. Loc was not too bad a driver and took it easy. We hadn’t seen a vehicle or a human being in about twenty kilometers.

Susan said, “I’ve never been this far into the interior. It’s spooky.”

“It’s like another country. Totally different from the coastal plains. Lots of Montagnards up here.”

“Who are they?”

“Hill tribespeople. There are lots of tribes with different names, but collectively we called them Montagnards, after the French name for them.”

“Oh. Now we call them ethnic minorities, or indigenous peoples. That’s politically correct.”

“Right. They’re Montagnards. Just means mountain people. Anyway, they used to like Americans and hated the ethnic Vietnamese, north and south. We armed them to the teeth, but the trick was to get them to kill only North Viets and Viet Cong, and not kill our ARVN allies. I think their motto was ‘The only good Vietnamese is a dead Vietnamese.’” I asked her, “Have you ever heard of the FULRO?”

Mr. Loc’s head turned, and we made eye contact. Now this idiot would go back and report that I was here to lead a Montagnard insurrection.

Susan said, “I saw some photos once in the war museum of—”

“Right. Me, too.”

Susan thought a moment, then said, “In all the years I’ve been here, I’ve never seen a hill tribesman.”

“Not even in the Q-Bar?”

She ignored that and asked me, “Are they… you know… friendly?”

“They used to be. They’re actually quite pleasant, if you’re not Vietnamese. Maybe you should re-comb your hair.”

I looked up and saw Mr. Loc staring at us in the rearview mirror. The man obviously understood what we were saying, and he didn’t like this talk about FULRO and the Montagnards’ hatred of the Vietnamese.

We crested a rise in the road and started down. The pass was still very narrow and twisting, and partly obscured with fog and mist, so we couldn’t see down into the A Shau Valley.

“Look, Paul.” Susan pointed to a ridge on which stood a long structure of logs and thatch, built on stilts. She asked me, “Is that a hill tribe house?”

“Looks like it.”

As we got within about a hundred meters of the longhouse, three men with very long hair, dressed in what looked like multicolored blankets, appeared on the ridge above us. Two of them were carrying AK-47 rifles, and the other had an American M-16. My heart skipped a beat, and I guess Mr. Loc’s did, too, because he slammed on his brakes.

Mr. Loc stared at the three armed men, less than fifty meters from us now, and said something to Susan.

Susan said to me, “Mr. Loc says they are Ba Co or Ba Hy tribesmen. They aren’t allowed to carry rifles, but they hunt with them, and the government doesn’t seem to be able to do anything about it.”

This was a piece of good news. I liked the idea of armed civilians that the government couldn’t control. I just hoped they remembered that they liked Americans.

The three tribesmen were looking down at us, but not making a move. I decided to make sure they knew only the driver was a Viet. I stood on the seat and waved. I shouted, “Hello! I’m back!”

They looked at one another, then back at me.

I called up to them, “I’m from Washington and I’m here to help you.”

Susan said, “You want to get us shot?”

“They love us.”

The three tribesmen waved their rifles, and I said to Mr. Loc, in English, “Okay, they say we can go. Move it.” I sat.

He threw the vehicle into gear.

We continued down the pass into the valley. Susan said, “That was incredible. Damn, I should have taken a picture.”

“If you take their picture, they cut off your head and try to stuff it into the camera.”

“You’re being an idiot.”

“I’ll tell you what they used to do to North Vietnamese soldiers and Viet Cong — they’d skin them alive, then filet them with razor knives, and feed the pieces to their dogs and make the prisoner watch as the dogs ate him, piece by piece. Every time they captured an enemy soldier, the dogs would go crazy with anticipation. Most enemy soldiers killed themselves rather than get captured by the Montagnards.”

“My God…”

“I never saw this… but I saw the aftermath once… I think it made us feel good that we weren’t quite that psychotic yet.”

She didn’t reply.

Mr. Loc turned and looked at me. It was not a very nice look. I said to him, “Drive.”

The pass widened and became less steep. The ground fog lifted, and we could see the A Shau Valley, dotted with patches of white mist, which looked like snow from here.

I stared at the valley, and it was very familiar. Not only did I never think I’d see this place again, but when I was here, I thought this was the last place I’d see on this earth.

Susan was looking at me and asked, “Remember it?”

I nodded.

“You flew in. Then what?”

I didn’t say anything for a while, then I said, “We flew in from Camp Evans, the First Cavalry Division’s forward headquarters. A huge flight of helicopters carrying infantry for an air assault. It was April 25, and there was a window of good weather. We came in from the northeast, over these hills that we just drove through. In the north end of the valley is this place called A Luoi, which was once a Viet village, but by that time, there was no trace of it. That’s where this road ends. At A Luoi, there was once a French Foreign Legion post that was overrun by the Communist Viet Minh, back in the ’50s. The Communists then controlled this valley, which was called a dagger pointed at the heart of Hue. So, in the early ’60s, the Special Forces arrived and set up a camp, right in the middle of Indian Country at A Luoi. They rebuilt the French airstrip, and recruited and trained the Montagnards to fight the Viet Cong and the North Viets.”

We were almost at the floor of the valley now, and I could see the small river that ran through it.

I continued, “The valley opens out into Laos over there, beyond those mountains, and a branch of the Ho Chi Minh Trail runs right into the valley. So one day in 1966, the enemy massed his forces in Laos, thousands of them, and overran the American Special Forces camp, and the Communists controlled the valley again.”

We were now entering the flat valley, and Mr. Loc sped up a little.

“After the Special Forces camp was overrun and the surviving hill people fled, this whole valley and the hills and mountains became a free-fire zone, a dumping ground for the air force. If they had to abort a precision bombing mission because of weather, they’d unload their bombs in this valley. When I got here, this place looked like Swiss cheese. These huge, house-sized craters became firing holes for us and them, and we’d fight, crater by crater… in the valley, in the hills, in the jungle up there.” I looked to the southwest and said, “Somewhere over there near Laos is the place called Hamburger Hill, where, in May 1969, the army had about two hundred men killed and hundreds more wounded, trying to take this useless hill. This whole fucking valley was drenched in blood for years… now… it still looks gloomy and forbidding… but I see that the Viets and the Montagnards are back… and I’m back.”

Susan stayed silent awhile, looked around, then said, “I can understand why you wouldn’t want to come back here.”

“Yeah… but… it’s better than reliving it in bad dreams… like the guy at the Cu Chi tunnels… you go back, look it in the eye, and see that it’s not what it used to be. Then, the new memory replaces the old one… that’s the theory. But meanwhile… the place bums me out.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“No.”

The road headed toward the resurrected village of A Luoi, which I could see in the distance. Around us, where there had once been elephant grass, bamboo, and brush, fields had been cleared for vegetable farming.

I said, “So, now it’s April 1968, and the American army wants the valley back. So we air-assault into here, and I’m sitting in a Huey with six other infantry guys, not happy about any of this, when all of a sudden flak starts to burst around the chopper. We’d never been shot at with Triple A — anti-aircraft artillery — and this was absolutely terrifying… these big black air bursts, like in a World War II flick, are filling the sky, and huge chunks of shrapnel are whizzing through the air around us. The chopper in front of me got hit in the tail rotor and the whole aircraft spun around, throwing infantry guys out the door, then the chopper fell like a rock and exploded on the ground. Then another chopper gets hit, and by now our pilot is in a rapid vertical descent, trying to get below the flak. So there’re two choppers down that I could see, each carrying seven infantry and four crew, so that’s twenty-two killed before we even hit the ground. We lost ten more choppers on the initial air assault. Meanwhile, we’re drawing machine gun fire from all these hills around the valley as we’re descending, and our chopper takes a round right through the plexiglass windshield, but we’re okay, and the pilot gets us about ten feet off the ground, we jump, and he gets the hell out of there.”

“Good lord. You must have been—”

“Scared shitless. So, now we’re on the ground, and it’s what’s called a hot landing zone, meaning, we’re drawing fire. The bad guys are in the hills all around us, and they’re lobbing in mortar rounds, rockets, and machine gun fire. We’re landing thousands of men by helicopter into this killing zone, and we start to spread out to engage the enemy in the hills. Meanwhile, the air force is dropping napalm and cluster bombs on the hills, and the army Cobra gunships are firing rockets and Gatling guns to try to suppress the enemy fire. It was a total fucking mess, sort of like the Normandy Beach landings, but by air instead of boat. By the end of the day, the situation was under control, we’d secured the A Luoi airstrip, and we were fanning out into the hills, searching for Chuck.”

I looked in the rearview mirror and said to Mr. Loc, “We beat the pants off the People’s Liberation Army that day, Mr. Loc.”

He didn’t reply.

“Paul. Don’t.”

“Fuck him. His mommie was a Commie.”

“Paul.”

I got myself calmed down a bit and saw that we were entering A Luoi, a muddy village of wooden structures. There was one stucco building with a flag that was obviously the government building. The only vehicles I could see were scooters, a farm truck, and two yellow police jeeps. There were electric wires overhead, so the place had electricity, which was an improvement over the last time I’d been here.

Mr. Loc stopped in the village square. There were no parking meters.

Susan and I got out, and I looked around, trying to orient myself. The hills hadn’t changed, but the valley floor had.

I said, “So, this is the shithole we fought for in three weeks of bloody combat.”

I said to Mr. Loc, in English, “We’re going to take a walk. You can report to your bosses.” I jerked my thumb toward the government building.

Susan and I walked through the small square and down a narrow path that ended in a field west of the village. Running through the farm fields was the old airstrip, a mile-long stretch of PSP — perforated steel planking — overgrown now with weeds, but still usable.

I said to Susan, “Here’s the airstrip, and at the far north end of it over there was the ruins of the Special Forces camp that the First Cav used as the command post when we landed. The engineers threw up sandbag bunkers all around the strip, and within two days, we had barbed wire and claymore mines encircling the whole runway. My company spent three days in the hills pushing the bad guys farther back, away from the airstrip. Then, we got a two-day break by manning the bunkers. My bunker was about over there, at the foot of that hill.”

I looked out over the farmland to where the hills rose, about five hundred meters away. I said to Susan, “One day, we’re sitting on top of the bunker, six guys playing poker, and Charlie starts dropping mortar rounds in from those hills farther back. And here’s what’s totally nuts — we barely looked up at the impacting rounds because we’re old pros by now, and we knew Chuck was trying to hit the command bunkers over there or the ammo dumps or the airstrip itself. So we kept on playing cards. And then — here’s the funny thing — some Commie son of a bitch up there in the hills — obviously the mortar spotter with field glasses — must have noticed us and got pissed off that we weren’t paying any attention to his mortar fire. So, he gets personal and starts directing the mortar fire toward our miserable little bunker. The rounds started walking in on us, and we realized they were getting too close when dirt and stones started falling on us. Well, I’m sitting there with three aces and about thirty bucks in the pot, and everyone drops their cards, grabs a handful of money, and jumps off the roof of the bunker and dives inside. I jumped in just as a mortar round exploded outside and shook the bunker. I’d kept my cards, and I’m showing these idiots my three aces as the bunker is starting to come apart, and we’re arguing if I won, or if it should be called a misdeal. We laughed about that for weeks afterward.”

Susan said, “I guess you had to be there.”

“I was.”

I walked on a path between two cultivated fields, and Susan followed. The path ended in a treeline, and we went through the trees to where the small river flowed. It was a shallow, rocky river, and I recalled crossing it at a rock ford somewhere upstream. I went down to the river’s edge and stood on a flat rock. Susan stood beside me.

“One day, we crossed this river a little upstream, over there. We had only about a hundred men in the company that used to number about a hundred and sixty. We’d lost a lot of people during the Tet Offensive in January and February, then at Khe Sanh in early April. So, now it’s around April 30, and we’ve already lost a few guys here in the A Shau, and the meat grinder needs fresh meat, but no replacements are arriving, and we’re also getting low on C rations and purified water…”

I looked at the water and said, “This is a clean mountain river, so we took a chance and filled our canteens here and drank directly out of the river.”

I walked along the rocky bank until I reached the natural rock ford I remembered. Susan followed, and we stepped into the river on the first rock. The water came up to our ankles, and it was as cold as I remembered it. We crossed the river and scrambled up the opposite bank.

I said, “So we crossed here, and what do we see? About ten dead enemy soldiers lying on the riverbank here, some of them half in the water. They were decomposing into the river, all green and bloated, and one guy’s jaw was just hanging by a piece of muscle and it was resting on his shoulder, with a full set of teeth… it was very weird.” I added, “Everyone emptied their canteens. One guy vomited.” I knelt down and scooped some water in my hands and stared at it, but didn’t drink.

Susan was quiet.

I stood and turned away from the river. I could see where the trail began through the thick vegetation, and I climbed the bank onto the trail.

Susan followed, but said, “Paul, this is the kind of place where there could still be land mines.”

“I don’t think so. This is probably a well-used ford, and this trail is also well traveled. But we’ll be careful.” I started up the trail and Susan followed. “We’ll do a leech check later.”

She didn’t reply.

“So, we’re moving up this trail, and something moves in the bush. But it’s not Chuck, it’s a deer. I’m near the front of the lead platoon, and like idiots, we all fire at the deer. We miss, and we start chasing it through this bush while the rest of the platoon is jogging up the trail to keep up with us.”

I kept moving up the trail that rose into the thick woods and up into the foothills.

“The company commander, Captain Ross, was back by the river with the other two platoons, and he thought we were in contact, but my platoon leader radioed that we were chasing a deer. This got us a chewing out from the captain, who was now leading the rest of the company to our rescue.” I laughed. “I mean, totally nuts.”

I kept moving up the rising trail. The rain forest was very thick here, and I kept thinking I felt land leeches falling on my neck.

Susan said, “Where are we going?”

“There’s something up here I want to see. I can’t believe I found this place.”

We passed by a few bomb craters that were now choked with trees and bush, but which had been fresh earth back then.

Finally, we got to a clearing that I remembered, and which was still pocked with bomb craters. Across the open clearing was a wall of rain forest, and about a hundred meters beyond the forest rose a tier of steep hills. This was the place. I walked toward the forest.

I stood at the wall of vegetation and said to Susan, “So, about twenty of us are chasing this deer and blasting away, and the deer runs right into this treeline, which then had an opening that we thought was another trail. We follow, and all of a sudden, we break into the open, but it’s not a natural jungle clearing because we see a lot of cut tree stumps, and we realize it’s an enemy base camp, hidden in the jungle, and also hidden from the air with the high triple-canopy vegetation overhead to form this huge sort of sky dome. Sunlight is filtering into these acres of open space, and it’s totally surreal. Huts, trucks, hammocks, open air kitchens, a field hospital, a damaged tank, and lots of anti-aircraft weapons, just sitting there.”

I tried to find a break in the vegetation, but couldn’t. I said to Susan, “It’s in there.” I pushed through the thick growth and got tangled in a wait-a-minute vine, which I cut with my Swiss army knife.

“Paul, this is not a well-traveled path. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“You go back.”

“No, you come back. That’s enough.”

“Just stay there, and I’ll call for you.” I pushed farther into the bush, knowing that this place could be littered with cluster bombs that had a habit of exploding when disturbed. But I needed to see this old base camp.

Finally, the bush thinned out, and I stood at the edge of what had once been a huge enemy base camp under the triple-canopy jungle. There was so little sunlight in here that the vegetation wasn’t very thick or tall, and I could see all the way to the rising hills about a hundred meters away.

Susan came up behind me and asked, “Is this it?”

“Yes. This was the North Vietnamese base camp. Look over there. You see those bamboo huts? This whole place was filled with huts, ammunition, trucks, weapons…”

I stepped farther into the old camp and looked up at the jungle canopy. “They’d actually hoisted camouflage nets up there. Very clever people.”

Susan didn’t reply.

“So, we charge in here after this deer, about twenty of us, and we stop dead in our tracks. The funny thing is that we’re chasing dinner, but the North Viets must have thought we were attacking with hundreds of troops because they’d all di di mau’ed. Gone. Someone noticed that a cooking fire was still smoking.”

I moved a few more meters into the camp and said, “We’re moving very cautiously now, tree by tree, stump by stump. We’d just scored a big hit by finding this camp, and my platoon leader, Lieutenant Merrit, radios the company commander with the good news, not mentioning the deer this time. But as it turned out, Charlie hadn’t really left, and they were hiding around the perimeter of this camp, mostly on those steep hills over there. But we’re not totally stupid either, so we get down behind the tree trunks and the stumps, and do what’s called recon by fire, which is basically shooting the place up to see if we can draw any fire in return before we get too deep into this compound. Sure enough, one of the bad guys loses his nerve or got overanxious, and fires back before the whole platoon is in the killing zone. All of a sudden, we’re in this huge firefight, and we’re firing grenades and rockets into these drums of gasoline, which are blowing up, and ammo dumps are blowing up, and by now, the rest of the company is right behind us.”

I walked farther into this overgrown camp and looked around. It was obvious that metal scavengers had been here because there wasn’t a shard of steel left anywhere — no blown-up gas drums, no wrecked trucks, and not even a scrap of shrapnel on the ground.

Susan came up beside me and stared at these open acres beneath the jungle canopy. “This is incredible… I mean, there must be places like this all over Vietnam.”

“There are. They managed to hide a half million men and women at any given time in jungle camps like this, in the Cu Chi tunnels and other tunnels, in villages along the coast, in the swamps of the Mekong Delta… they’d come out to fight when and where they wanted, on their terms… but this time, we trapped them in this valley, and they had to stand and fight on our terms…”

I moved farther into the deserted, spooky camp. “Unfortunately, it turned out that we’d tangled with a much bigger force than ours, so we broke contact and got the hell out of there. We moved back toward the river, but they kept trying to get around us to cut us off, and we kept blasting our way out. We called in helicopter gunships and artillery, which is the only thing that saved us from being surrounded and annihilated that day. It was a real mess, but the worst was yet to come. Our battalion commander, a lieutenant colonel, had been wounded in the air assault, and his replacement, a major, really wanted to be a lieutenant colonel, so for two days, he ordered us to counterattack, supported by artillery and gunships. But we were still outnumbered, and by Day Three, we’d lost a third of the company, killed and wounded, but we retook the camp, or so we thought. All of a sudden, we hear something strange over there at the far end of the camp, and out of that jungle comes two tanks, and they weren’t ours because we had no tanks in the valley. None of us had ever run into an enemy tank, and we’re… frozen. The tanks had twin 57 millimeter rapid-fire cannon mounted on turrets, and they open up. One guy gets hit square in the chest with a cannon shell, and he disintegrates. Two guys get hit by flying shrapnel, and everyone is diving for cover or running, but you can’t outrun a tank. Then, one guy takes his M-72 anti-tank rocket — this little thing in a cardboard tube — stands, adjusts his aiming device very coolly as these tanks are coming at us, and he fires. The rocket hits the turret of the lead tank, and the gunner is blown out of the turret. Another guy fires a rocket and knocks out the other tank’s tread. The enemy tankers get out and start running, and we mow them down. Now we have two tank kills, and the captain radios this to battalion headquarters, and we’re heroes. So, do we get relieved and go back to A Luoi? No, the new battalion commander is trying to get a reputation or something, and he orders us to push on. That’s not what we had in mind, but the guy is slick, and he tells us on the radio that according to intelligence reports, there may be American POWs kept in bamboo cages farther into the hills. So this motivates us, and off we go.”

I walked toward where I thought we’d hit the tanks, and Susan followed. “We climbed this steep hill over here and pursued what was left of the enemy, and kept a lookout for those POW cages.” I took a breath and continued. “By Day Six, we’d had about a dozen fights with the North Viets as they withdrew. We actually did find some bamboo cages, but they were empty. By now, we were completely exhausted, overcome with the worst kind of combat fatigue where you can’t sleep at night, you can’t eat, and you have to remind yourself to drink water. We’re barely speaking to one another because there’s nothing to say. Every day more people are getting killed or wounded, and the group becomes smaller, until platoons and squads no longer exist, and we’re just a horde of armed men without any real leadership or command structure… all the officers are dead or wounded, except the company commander, Captain Ross, a twenty-five-year-old who’s the old man of the company by now, and all the sergeants are dead or wounded… the medics are all wounded, and so are the radio operators and the machine gunners, so we’re trying to remember what we learned in basic training about radios, the M-60 machine gun, and first aid… and we keep pushing on…”

I stared at the hills in the distance.

Susan said in a soft voice, “Paul, we can go back now.”

“Yeah… well, we should have asked to be relieved or reinforced, and maybe the company commander did, though I don’t remember… but this running battle had taken on a life of its own, and I think it had a lot to do with killing more of the people who’d killed and wounded so many of us… it was like a fight to the finish, and as frightened and fatigued as we were, all we wanted to do was kill more of them. In fact, something very strange had happened to us.”

I stood. “It went on for a total of seven days, and by the seventh day, you couldn’t guess that we were nice American kids from a nice, clean country. I mean, we literally had blood on our hands, on our ripped fatigues, we had seven-day beards, and hollow bloodshot eyes, and filth on our bodies, and we weren’t thinking about shaves and showers, or food or bandages… we were thinking about killing another gook.”

We both stood there and finally Susan said, “I understand why you wouldn’t want to talk about this.”

I looked at her and said, “I’ve told this story a few times. This is not the story I don’t like to talk about.”

I walked fifty meters farther into the camp, and Susan followed. “We moved deeper into these hills, and on the seventh day, we were patrolling down a ridgeline, looking for another fight. The company commander put out flank security — two guys in the ravines on either side of this ridge. I was one of the guys. Me and this other guy scramble down into this ravine, and we’re walking parallel to the company, who we could still see on the ridgeline above us. But then the ravine got deeper, the ridgeline turned, and the other guy was way out in front of me, and now I’ve lost visual contact with him and the rest of the company. So, I’m walking by myself, which is not a good thing to do, and I’m trying to catch up to the guy in front of me, but as it turned out, he’d scrambled back up the side of the ridge to try to find the company.”

I moved to the base of the steep hill where there were still some huts, collapsed and overgrown with vines. I looked up at the hill. “It was over there, on the other side of this hill… I’m walking by myself, and I decided it was time to climb back up the ridge and find everyone. Just as I was about to do that, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye, and standing on the other side of the ravine, not twenty meters away, is a North Vietnamese soldier with an AK-47 rifle, and he’s looking at me.”

I took a deep breath and continued, “So… we’re staring at each other, and this guy is dressed in tiger fatigue pants, but he’s bare-chested, and he has bloody bandages wrapped around his chest. My rifle is not at the ready, and neither is his. So, now it’s a matter of who gets off the first shot, but to be honest, I was frozen with fear, and I thought he was, too. But then… the guy throws his rifle down, and I started to breathe again. He was surrendering, I thought. But no. He starts walking toward me and I raise my rifle and yell, ‘Dung lai!’ Stop. Halt. But he keeps coming at me, and I yell again, ‘Dung lai!’ He then pulls a long machete out of his belt. He’s saying something, but I can’t figure out what the hell he’s trying to tell me. By this time, I’d had enough of this, and I was going to blow him away. But then I see he’s pointing to the entrenching tool — the shovel hanging from my web belt, and all of a sudden, I realize that he wants to go hand-to-hand.”

I felt a cold sweat forming on my face, and I listened to the birds and the insects in the trees, and I was back in that ravine again.

I said to Susan, or to myself, “He wants to go hand-to-hand, and he’s spitting out these words. I didn’t understand a thing he was saying, but I knew exactly what he was saying. He was saying, ‘Let’s see how brave you are without your artillery, your gunships, your jet fighters.’ He was saying, ‘You fucking coward. Let’s see if you have any real balls, you overfed, overindulged, fucking American pig.’ That’s what he was saying. Meanwhile, he’s coming closer, and he’s not even ten feet from me now, and I looked into his eyes, and I’ve never seen hate like that before or since. I mean, this guy is totally around the bend, he’s been wounded, and he’s alone like maybe he’s the last survivor of his unit… and he’s motioning for me to come closer, you know, like in a schoolyard fight. Come on, punk. Let’s see if you have any balls. Take the first swing… then… I have no idea why… but I threw my rifle down… and he stops and smiles. He points again to my shovel, and I nod to him.”

I stopped talking and stood on a rock at the base of the hill. I took a few breaths and wiped my face.

Susan said, “Paul, let’s go.”

I shook my head and went on, “So, who’s crazier, me or him? I reached around, unsnapped my entrenching shovel, and set the blade at a ninety degree angle to the handle and locked it in place. I took my helmet off and threw it on the ground. He’s not smiling anymore, and his face is intent and focused. He’s looking in my eyes, and he wants me to look at him, but I’m from South Boston and I know you keep your eyes on the other guy’s weapon. So, now we’re circling around each other, stalking, and neither of us is saying a word. He swings the machete, and it cuts the air in front of my face, but I don’t step back because he’s not close enough… but his machete is longer than my shovel, and this is going to be a problem if he comes closer. So, round and round we go, until finally he makes his move and aims a diagonal blow at the side of my neck.”

I stopped speaking and thought about what happened next. Strangely, though I’d rarely relived it in detail, it all came back to me. I said, “I jump back and it misses, then he comes in again with the point of the machete aimed at my throat. I step to the side, stumble, and fall. He’s on me in half a second and goes for my legs with the machete, but I swivel my legs away, and he cuts the ground. I jump to my feet as he delivers another blow toward my neck, but I deflect it with my shovel, then bring the shovel up, like an uppercut, and catch the side of his jaw. The shovel blade, which I keep sharp, shaves off a piece of his jaw, and this big piece of bloody flesh is hanging there, and he’s in temporary shock, which is all I need. I swing the shovel around like I’m swinging a bat at a fastball and the blade nearly severs his right forearm and the machete flies out of his hand.”

I thought I should let this story end there, but I continued. “So… he’s standing there and the game is over. I have a prisoner, if I want one, or I could let him walk away. Or… I could kill him with my entrenching tool… he’s staring at me, this big bloody piece of his jaw hanging, and his forearm running blood… so, what do I do? I throw my entrenching tool down and pull my K-bar knife. His eyes show fear for the first time, then he shoots a quick look at his machete on the ground, and he goes for it. I kick him in the head, but he’s still scrambling for the machete. I come around him and grab his hair with my left hand, jerk him upright and pull his head back. Then I cut his throat with my knife. I can still feel the blade slicing through the cartilage of his windpipe, and I hear a hiss of air as the windpipe is severed… I cut the artery, too, and blood is gushing out all over my hand… I let him go, but he’s still standing, and he turns to me and we’re face-to-face, and blood is gushing out of his throat, and I could see the life dying in his eyes, but he won’t stop staring at me, so we look at each other until his legs collapse, and he falls face forward.”

I avoided looking at Susan and said, “I wiped the blood off my knife on his pants, clipped the shovel on my belt, sheathed my knife, gathered my helmet and rifle, and started walking away. I looked up and saw two guys from my company, who’d come to find me, and they’d seen some of this. One guy took my rifle out of my hand and fired three signal shots in the air. He said to me, ‘The rifle works, Brenner.’ These guys looked at me… I mean, we were all a little nuts by then, but… this was above and beyond nuts, and they knew it.”

I thought a moment, trying to recall what happened next, then I said, “The other guy retrieved the AK-47, and he says to us, ‘The gook has a full magazine.’ He looked at me and says, ‘How the fuck did you get into hand-to-hand with this guy?’ I didn’t say anything, and the other guy says, ‘ Brenner, you’re supposed to shoot these fuckers, not get into knife fights with them.’ They both laughed. Then the guy picks up the machete and hands it to me, and he says, ‘Take the head back. No one’s going to believe this shit.’ So… I hacked off the dead man’s head… and the other guy fixed his bayonet to my rifle, and he picks up the head and sticks it on the bayonet and hands me my rifle…”

I glanced at Susan and continued, “So we go to rejoin the company, me holding up the head on the end of my rifle, and as we approach the company positions, one of the guys with me yells out, ‘Don’t shoot — Brenner’s got a prisoner,’ and everybody laughs… everybody wants to know what happened… a guy cuts a bamboo pole and sticks the head on the pole… I talk to the captain along with these two guys who found me… and I’m kind of out of it… I’m looking at this head, which is being paraded around on the pole…” I drew a deep breath. “That night, I was on a helicopter back to base camp… along with the head… where the company clerk handed me a three-day pass to Nha Trang.”

I looked at Susan and said, “So, that’s how I wound up in Nha Trang on R&R.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Susan and I walked silently down to the river where we did a leech check. She was clean, but I had a land leech on my back starting to bloat with blood.

I said to her, “Light up.”

She lit a cigarette, and I instructed her to heat the leech’s rear end without burning it or me. She put the cigarette close to the leech, and it backed off. She plucked it off my back and threw it away with a sound of disgust. She said, “You’re bleeding.”

She put a tissue on the leech bite and held it there until it stuck. We put our clothes on, and we sat on a rock by the riverbank.

She smoked, and I said, “I’ll take a drag.”

She handed me the cigarette, and I took a long pull, coughed, and gave her the cigarette. I said, “These aren’t good for you.”

“Who said they were?”

We sat there quietly and listened to the flowing water.

She finished her cigarette and asked, “How are you doing?”

“Okay.” I thought a moment and said, “Men who’ve been here have worse stories than that to tell… and I’ve seen worse… but there’s something about hand-to-hand. I can still smell that guy and see his face, and I can still feel his hair in my hand and the knife cutting into his throat…”

“Finish it.”

“Yeah… well, afterward, I was sorry I killed him. He should have lived. You know, like a defeated warrior who’s shown bravery.”

“Do you think he would have let you live?”

“No, but I shouldn’t have taken his head. An ear or a finger would have been enough.”

She lit another cigarette and said to me, “That’s not what’s really bothering you.”

I looked at her, and our eyes met.

We sat there, watching the river. Finally, I said, “I frightened myself.”

She nodded.

“I mean… where did that come from?”

She threw her cigarette in the river. She said, “It came from a place you never need to go to again.”

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel good about it… about taking the challenge and killing him.”

She didn’t reply.

I said, “But like a lot of traumatic events, I buried it very quickly, and by Day One in Nha Trang, it was the furthest thing from my mind. Except, now and then, it would pop back in my head.”

She nodded and lit another cigarette.

I said, “Then after I got home, I started to think about it more… like, Why did I do that? No one was egging me on, except him, and there was no rational reason for me to throw down my rifle and try to kill this guy with my shovel while he’s trying to hack me up with his machete. What the hell was I thinking?”

“Sometimes, Paul, it’s better to leave these things alone.”

“I suppose… I mean, I’ve seen war psychosis, and I’ve seen guys in combat who lose all fear for some reason, and I’ve seen the most inhuman and brutal behavior you can possibly imagine from normal guys. I’ve seen skulls used as paperweights or candle holders on the desks of officers and sergeants, I’ve seen American soldiers with necklaces made out of teeth or dried ears or finger bones, and I can’t tell you all the day-to-day atrocities I’ve seen on both sides… and it makes you wonder about who we are, and about yourself when you barely pay attention to it, and you really start wondering about yourself when you start participating. It was like a cult of death… and you wanted to belong…”

Susan stared at the flowing river, the smoke rising from her cigarette.

“Most guys arrived here normal, and they were shocked and sickened by the behavior of the guys who’d been here awhile. Then within a few weeks, they’d stop being shocked, and within a few months, a lot of them joined the club of the crazies. And most of them, I think, went home and became normal again, though some didn’t. But I never once saw anyone here who had gone around the bend ever return to normal while they were still here. It only got worse because in this environment they’d lost any sense of… humanity. Or, you could be nice and say they’d become desensitized. It was actually more frightening than sickening. A guy who’d sliced off the ear of a VC he’d killed that morning would be joking with the village kids and the old Mama-sans that afternoon, and handing out candy. I mean, they weren’t evil or psychotic, we were normal, which is what really scared the hell out of me.”

I realized I’d gone from “they” to “we,” which was the whole point; “they” became “we,” and “we” became me. Fuck Father Bennett, fuck St. Brigid’s church, fuck Peggy Walsh, fuck the Act of Contrition, fuck the confessional booth, and fuck everything I’d ever learned in school and at home. Just like that. It took about three months. It would’ve taken less time, but November and December in the Bong Son were kind of quiet. After Tet, Khe Sanh, and the A Shau, I would have killed my own brother if he was wearing the wrong uniform; in fact, a lot of the Vietnamese did.

Susan was still staring at the river, motionless, as though she didn’t want to make any abrupt movements while I was carrying my sharpened shovel.

I took a deep breath and said, “I don’t mean to pretend that I was the chaplain’s assistant. Far from it. We’d all gone crazy, but we all figured it was temporary and conditional. And if you’re lucky, someday you go home. But unfortunately, you take it home with you, and it changes you forever because you went to that dark place in your soul, the place most people know exists but have never been to, but you’ve been there for a long time and didn’t find it so terrible, nor do you feel an ounce of guilt, and that itself becomes the fear… and you go on with your life in the U.S.A., mingling again with normal people, laughing and joking, but carrying this thing inside you… this secret that Mom doesn’t know, and your girlfriend can’t guess at, except sometimes she knows something’s wrong… and now and then, you run into one of your own, someone who was there, and you swap stupid stories about getting drunk and getting laid, and hot landing zones, and dumb officers who couldn’t read a map, and the worst case of black clap you’ve ever had, and poor Billy or Bob who got greased, and this and that, but you never touch on things like those villagers who you blew away by accident, or not by accident, or about how many ears and heads you collected, or the time you cut someone’s throat with a knife…”

Susan asked, “Was anyone… normal?”

I thought about that and said, “I’d like to say that there were men among us who… who held on to some degree of morality or humanity… but I really can’t remember… I think maybe. A combat unit is self-selecting… you know, guys who couldn’t handle it either never made it to the front, or were sent back. I remember guys who cracked very quickly and were sent to the rear to do menial jobs, and that was sort of a disgrace, but we got rid of them… and yes, there were men among us who held on to their religious or moral beliefs, but I think that in war, as in life, the good ones die young and die first…” I said to her, “That’s the best answer I can give you.”

She nodded.

I looked at the river, which I’d crossed so many years before with my own tribe, chasing the deer who led us into the dark rain forest to a darker place than we’d ever been before.

We re-crossed the river at the rock ford and started back to A Luoi. As we walked on the straight path through the ground mist and the farm fields, Susan said to me, “I feel that anything I say would be trivial or patronizing or stupidly sensitive. But let me say this, Paul — what happened here, to you and the others, was history, in both senses of the word. There was a war, you were in it, it’s over.”

“I know. I believe that.”

“And if you’re wondering, I don’t feel any differently toward you.”

I didn’t reply, but I wanted to say, “You say that now. Think about it.”

Susan took my hand and squeezed it. She said, “And there I am, having dinner on the roof of the Rex Hotel, bugging this total stranger about not wanting to talk about the war. Can I apologize for that?”

“No need. This whole trip has done me good. And if you weren’t along, I might not have been as honest with myself as I’m being with you.”

“I appreciate that.”

I changed the subject and said, “Somewhere in this valley, in May of 1968, a North Vietnamese soldier named Tran Quan Lee was killed in battle. Found on his body was a letter from his brother, Tran Van Vinh, also a soldier in the North Vietnamese army.”

I didn’t elaborate and waited for her to respond. Finally, she asked, “And you found this body and letter?”

“No. Someone else did.”

“And you saw this letter?”

“Yes, about a week ago. Do you know anything about this letter?”

She looked at me as we walked and said, “Paul, I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

I stopped and she stopped. I looked at her. “Susan, do you know anything about this letter?”

She shook her head, thought a moment, then said, “This has something to do with why you’re here.”

“That’s right.”

“You mean… someone found a letter on the body of an enemy soldier… who found the letter?”

“An American soldier in the First Cavalry Division found the letter.”

“You knew this man?”

“No. It was a big division. Twenty thousand men. This guy who found the letter kept it as a war souvenir, and recently the letter was translated, and what was in the letter is the reason I’m here.”

She mulled that over, and I looked at her. I knew this woman by now, and I could tell she knew something and was trying to fit it in with what I’d said.

I asked her, “What did they tell you?”

She looked at me and replied, “Only that some new information had come to light and that you had to find someone here and question that person about it.”

“I told you that.”

“I know. And that’s all they told me in Saigon. Is this letter the new information?”

“It is.”

“What does the letter say?”

“Well, what it says is one thing, what it means is something else. That’s why I need to find and question the person who wrote the letter.”

She nodded.

We continued on toward the village of A Luoi, about a hundred meters away across the flat terrain. It was irrelevant where and how Tran Quan Lee died, but it would be interesting to know. If I’d had time back in Washington, I’d have found and questioned Victor Ort, and maybe swap some A Shau Valley stories.

I was certain that Victor Ort had made a photocopy of the letter for himself, or had kept the original and sent the VVA the photocopy. In either case, Victor Ort had an original text that I could have had translated rather than relying on the altered translation I’d seen. But probably Karl sent someone to Ort’s house and got the letter. Bottom line, Karl wasn’t going to let me do any standard detective work on this case; he’d made certain I went off half in the dark to Saigon on a weekend, where Susan Weber did some smoke and mirrors until I was on the train to Nha Trang.

Also, I didn’t see how that letter and Susan’s statement about Cam Ranh Bay fit together, if indeed they did. That could be smoke and mirrors, too.

Susan asked me, “Do you have a copy of the letter?”

I replied, “You must have skipped a few classes at Langley.”

“Don’t be sarcastic. I’m not a trained intelligence officer.”

“Then what did they teach you there?”

“How to be useful. I assume your contact in Hue told you how to find… what’s his name?”

“Tran Van Vinh. And yes, he did.” I asked her, “Does that name mean anything to you?”

“No. Should it?”

“I suppose not.” But I’d had another thought that Tran Van Vinh had become a high-ranking member of the Hanoi government, and somehow the true translation of this letter could be used to blackmail him into cooperating with the Americans on something, like maybe Cam Ranh Bay.

Mr. Vinh could actually live in Hanoi and be in Ban Hin only for the Tet holiday, which would make sense. But if he was going to be blackmailed, why did they want him dead? It was possible that Washington didn’t want him dead, and just told me that as more bullshit so I couldn’t figure this out. But if that were the case, why did Mr. Anh in Hue give me that message, which as far as I knew, were my final instructions from Washington?

It’s very difficult to solve a case when all the evidence you have is written or verbal, and the written evidence is bogus, and the verbal stuff is lies.

The truth of the matter lay in the village of Ban Hin — formerly known as Tam Ki — in the person of Tran Van Vinh, a simple peasant and former soldier, who might well be neither of those things. In fact, he might be long dead, or about to be dead, or about to be bribed or blackmailed.

War, as I’ve said, has a stark simplicity and honesty to it, like trying to kill someone with a shovel. Intelligence work was, by its nature, a game of liar’s poker, played with a marked deck and counterfeit money.

Susan said, “I’m sorry I can’t help you with that letter. But I can help you find the guy who wrote it, and if he doesn’t speak English I can give you an accurate translation of what he says to you, and you to him.” She added, “I’m pretty good at winning the confidence of the Vietnamese.”

“Not to mention horny American males.”

“That’s easy.” She added, “Trust me, or don’t trust me. You’re not going to find anyone better than me to help you.”

I didn’t reply.

We reached the outskirts of A Luoi, where an old woman was throwing rice to a flock of chickens in a bamboo enclosure behind her house. She looked at us in surprise, and our eyes met, and we both knew why I was here. This valley certainly wasn’t an attraction for the average tourist.

We walked through a cluster of houses and back into the square. The RAV sat where we’d left it, and Mr. Loc was sitting under a thatched canopy in what looked like a primitive café or canteen filled with locals. He was drinking something by himself and smoking. Most Viets, I’d noticed, never sat alone and would strike up a conversation with anyone. But Mr. Loc gave off bad vibes, which the Viets in the canteen recognized, and they kept their distance from him.

Susan asked me, “Do you want to get something to eat or drink?”

“No. Let’s head out.”

She went to the canteen and spoke to Mr. Loc, then came back to where I was standing near the vehicle. “He’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“Who’s paying for this trip — him or me?”

“I don’t think he likes you.”

“He’s a fucking cop. I can smell them a mile away.”

“Then maybe he has the same thought about you.” Susan asked me, “Do you want a picture here?”

“No.”

“You’ll never be back this way again.”

“I hope not.”

“Do you have pictures of when you were here last time?”

“I never once took my camera out of my backpack.” I added, “I don’t think anyone took a picture here, and if they did, the odds were that their family developed them when the deceased’s personal effects were sent home.”

She dropped the subject.

Mr. Loc finished whatever he was drinking and approached the vehicle.

I took the map off the seat and opened it. I said to Susan, “This dotted line to Khe Sanh says something about the Ho Chi Minh Trail, right?”

She looked at the map and read, “‘He Thong Duong Mon Ho Chi Minh.’ Means sort of network of the trail, or part of the trail network of Ho Chi Minh.”

“Right. It wasn’t actually a single trail — it was an entire network of jungle trails, shallow streambeds, underwater bridges, log roads through swamps, and who knows what else. Most of it, as you can see, goes through Laos and Cambodia, where we weren’t supposed to operate. This trail to Khe Sanh skirts the Laotian border, and I hope this clown doesn’t get lost, and we wind up in Laos without a visa.”

Mr. Loc was standing nearby, and I motioned him toward me. He moved slowly and stood too close. I wanted to deck him, tie his thumbs together, and drive myself. But that might cause a problem. I pointed at the map and said to him, “Ho Chi Minh Trail. Biet? Khe Sanh.”

He nodded and got in the driver’s seat. Susan and I got in the rear, and off we went.

There were a number of narrow farm paths in the valley, which we drove on, and at some point, we headed north on a dirt road through the foothills. The trees came up to the road, and the branches blocked out most of the sunlight. This was, indeed, the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

The terrain got rougher and more mountainous, and now and then part of the road was paved with rotting logs, what we used to call corduroy roads. There were spectacular waterfalls and cascades in the distance, and shallow brooks ran right across the road. Susan took photos as we bounced along. Mr. Loc seemed to enjoy running through the mud as fast as possible to maximize the splashes, and Susan and I got splattered a few times. In the rearview mirror, I could see Mr. Loc smiling.

We were barely making thirty kilometers per hour, and the RAV was bouncing badly. Now and then, the road wound around what looked like small ponds, but which were actually gigantic bomb craters made by thousand-pound blockbusters dropped by B-52 bombers from thirty thousand feet. I pointed this out to Susan and said, “We spent a fortune blowing the hell out of these dirt trails. We may have killed between fifty and a hundred thousand North Vietnamese soldiers, men and women, along these infiltration routes. But they kept coming, filling in the holes or changing the route now and then, like a line of army ants that you’re trying to stomp on before they reach your house.” I added, “I didn’t appreciate this until I saw those Russian-made tanks in that base camp. I mean, those vehicles were made near Moscow, wound up somehow in North Vietnam, and traveled thousands of kilometers over roads like this, under constant attacks, carrying their own fuel and spare parts, and one day, one of them makes it all the way to the gates of the presidential palace in Saigon. I give those bastards credit. They never understood that we were beating the hell out of them and that they couldn’t possibly win.” I slapped Mr. Loc on the shoulder and said, “Hey, you little guys are tough. Next war against the Chinese, I want you on my side.”

Our eyes met in the rearview mirror, and I could swear that Mr. Loc nodded.

The rain forest thinned out, and we could see that the hills and mountains were dotted with longhouses on stilts, and we saw the smoke of cooking fires curling into the misty air.

Susan said, “This is absolutely beautiful. It’s so pristine. Can we stop and meet some tribespeople?”

“They don’t like unannounced visitors.”

“Are you making that up?”

“No. You have to call ahead. They only receive visitors between four and six.”

“You’re making that up.”

“You make stuff up,” I said.

“No, I don’t. Let’s stop.”

“Later. There are lots of tribespeople around Khe Sanh.”

“Are you sure?”

“Ask James Bong.”

She smiled. “Is that what you call him?”

“Yeah. James Bong, secret agent. Ask him.”

She asked him, he replied, and she said to me, “He says there are Bru tribesmen around Khe Sanh.” She added, “He wants to know what business we have with the Moi — Moi means savages.”

“Well, first of all, it’s none of his business, and second, we don’t like racial epithets, unless it’s gook, slant, or zipper head.”

“Paul. That’s awful.”

“I know. I’m regressing. I apologize. Tell him to go fuck himself.”

Mr. Loc, I think, understood this. I said to Susan and to Mr. Loc, “If we were trying to make contact with insurgent tribesmen, would we have a secret policeman driving us?”

No one answered.

Susan took a few more photos and carried on a chat with Mr. Loc. After a while, she said to me, “Mr. Loc says there are about eight million tribesmen in Vietnam, and over fifty distinct tribes with different languages and dialects. He says the government is trying to bring education and agriculture to the tribespeople, but they resist civilization.”

“Maybe it’s the government they’re resisting.”

Susan said, “Maybe they should be left alone.”

“Correct. Look, I happen to like the Montagnards I’ve met, and I’m happy to see that they still carry rifles. My fantasy is to come back, like Colonel Gordon, Marlon Brando, or Mr. Kurtz, and go native. I’d organize those eight million people into a hell of a fighting force, and we’d own these mountains. We’d hunt and fish all day, and perform weird and spooky ceremonies at night, gathered around blazing fires with the heads of our enemies impaled on poles. Maybe I’d organize tour groups of Americans. Paul Brenner’s Montagnard World. Ten bucks for a day trip, fifty for overnight. I saw Montagnards once stake out a bull and skin it alive, then cut its throat and drink its blood. That would be the climax of the evening. What do you think?”

She didn’t reply.

We rode in silence through the fog-shrouded mountains under a sunless sky, the smell of wood fires hanging in the heavy air, and the damp chill seeping into my bones and my heart. I think I hated this place.

Susan said something to Mr. Loc and he stopped.

I asked, “What’s up?”

She replied, “There’s a trail there that leads up this hill to some longhouses.” She took her camera and got out of the RAV. She said, “I want to see a Montagnard village.”

She started up a steep trail off the side of the road. I said to Mr. Loc, “Be right back, Charlie. Don’t go away.”

I got out and followed Susan up the trail.

About two hundred meters up the side of the hill, the land flattened, revealing a large clearing in which were six longhouses built on stilts.

In the clearing were about two dozen women and twice as many kids, all going about their daily activities, which seemed to consist mostly of food preparation. The whole area looked very clean and free of vegetation, except for short grass on which grazed small goats and two tethered hill ponies.

The women were wearing long, dark blue dresses with white embroidery, gathered at the waist with scarves.

The dogs started barking as soon as they smelled us, but the Montagnards kept at their tasks, and barely gave us a glance, though a few of the kids stopped what they were doing.

The dogs ran toward us, but they were small dogs, as all the dogs were in Vietnam, and I didn’t remember them as being particularly vicious. Still, I wished I had little doggie treats. I said to Susan, “They won’t bite.”

“Famous last words.”

“Don’t kneel to pet them — they don’t get petted and they might think you’re looking for lunch.”

Susan waved to the Montagnards and said something in Vietnamese.

I said to her, “This is the Tribingo tribe. They’re cannibals.”

A short, stocky old man, who had been sitting on the stairs of a longhouse, rose and walked toward us. He wore an embroidered long-sleeve shirt, black pants, and leather sandals.

I looked around again, but didn’t see any young or middle-aged men. They were all hunting, or maybe drying heads in the smokehouse.

The old man came right up to us, and Susan said something to him, which included the word My, and they both bowed.

Susan introduced me to the old man, whose name sounded like John, and we shook hands. This guy was old enough to have been a Montagnard fighter, and he was eyeing me like I might be here to give him new orders.

Susan and the old man, who was obviously the village chief — the honcho, as we called them, even though that was a Japanese word — chatted, and I could tell they were having a little trouble communicating in Vietnamese.

John looked at me and surprised me by saying, “You GI? You fight here?”

I replied, “A Shau.”

“Ah.” He motioned us to follow him.

I said to Susan, “I think they’re going to have us for lunch.”

“Paul, stop being an idiot. This is fascinating.”

The old man informed us that he and his people were of the Taoi tribe, which I hoped weren’t into human sacrifices, and he showed us around the small village, which had no name; according to Susan, it was called the Place of the Clan of dai-uy John, or Chief John. Dai-uy is also captain, and John was not his name, but that’s what it sounded like. I didn’t think I’d find this place in the Hammond World Atlas, especially if it changed names every time they got a new chief.

Susan asked for and got permission to take photographs of everything and everybody. The dogs followed us wherever we went.

John pointed out all sorts of things that he thought would interest us, and which did interest one of us.

He introduced us to everyone, even the kids, and Susan kept up a conversation with him as she translated for me. Susan said to me, “He wants to know if we’ll have food with him and his people.”

“Next time. We need to get moving.”

“I’m hungry.”

“You won’t be when you see what’s on the menu. Also, they take forever to eat a meal. They must have learned about four-hour lunches from the French. Tell him we need to be somewhere.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

I looked at the old man and tapped my watch, which maybe he understood, and I said, “Khe Sanh.”

“Ah.” He nodded.

We finished the village tour, and I noticed that the kids were not following us, or begging for money or candy, like the Viet kids usually do in Saigon. Only the dogs dogged us each step of the way.

The old man led us to the wooden stairs where we’d first seen him sitting and invited us to come into the longhouse. There were leather sandals and homemade shoes all over the steps, so Susan and I took off our shoes and so did John.

We climbed the stairs, and the dogs did not follow. Americans should learn to keep their dogs outside, like the primitive Montagnards did.

We entered this wooden structure about fifty feet long and twenty feet wide. The floor was wood planking, with multicolored throw rugs scattered around. Tree trunk poles ran down the center of the longhouse and held up the peaked roof.

There were small windows covered with thin fabric that let in some daylight and a few hanging oil lamps, which were lit. Obviously, there was no electricity. Toward the center of the longhouse was a big clay oven, but no chimney, and I recalled that the smoke rose to the roof and filled the room, which kept the mosquitoes away at night.

There weren’t any people in the longhouse, and the hammocks were folded and hung along the walls. I counted about twenty of them, and I tried to picture twenty people of all ages and both sexes sleeping together in this communal house filled with smoke. No wonder there weren’t as many Montagnards as there were Vietnamese. I asked Susan, “You ever do it in a hammock?”

“Can we change the subject to something cultural?”

John led us to the center of the longhouse where his space was. He was the honcho, so he had a big area, filled with bamboo chests and boxes. There were machetes and knives hung on the wall, along with some scarves and strips of leather.

I noticed a big square table in the center of the longhouse about a foot off the ground, stacked with porcelain and pottery.

In an odd way, this communal society was the Communist ideal, yet the Montagnards hated the rigidity and control of the Communist government, and were basically free-spirited and independent. Plus, they didn’t like the Vietnamese anyway.

John sat cross-legged beside a big wooden chest and so did Susan, so I did the same, which is easier than squatting like the Viets do.

John opened the chest, pulled out a green beret, and handed it to me.

I took it and looked at it. Inside was the label of an American manufacturer.

John said something to Susan, who translated, “He says this was given to him by his American dai-uy during the war.”

I nodded.

He took out another green beret, said something, and Susan said to me, “This was given to him only three years ago by another American — a former soldier who had come to visit.”

I said to Susan, “I don’t have any green berets to give him.”

“Give him your watch.”

“Give him your watch.” I asked, “What the hell is he going to do with a watch?”

John showed us a few other treasures from his chest: a GI web belt, a plastic canteen, a compass, a K-bar knife, and a few ammo pouches. I was reminded of my own steamer trunk in the basement of my house, like a million other trunks all over America, filled with bits and pieces of a former military life.

John then took a small blue box from his chest, which I recognized as a military medal box, like a jewelry box, and he opened it, very reverentially. Lying on the satin lining was a round bronze medal with a red and white ribbon. Stamped on the medal was an eagle perched on a book and sword. Around the eagle were the words “Efficiency, Honor, Fidelity.”

I stared at the medal and recognized it as the Good Conduct Medal. I recalled that the Special Forces guys used to buy them in the base camp PXs and award them to their Montagnard troops for bravery, though the medal had nothing to do with bravery, but the Montagnards didn’t know that, and the army wasn’t bummed out about the Special Forces guys handing out these nothing medals to their Montagnard fighters.

I took the box as if it held the Congressional Medal of Honor and looked at the Good Conduct Medal and showed it to Susan. I said, “John got this for extraordinary bravery, above and beyond the call of duty.”

Susan nodded and said something to John in a respectful tone.

John smiled, took the box from me, and snapped it closed. He put it gently back in the big chest.

I thought about my Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry, given to me by the Viet colonel who kissed both my cheeks, and I wondered if I’d actually gotten a medal for having a clean uniform or something.

Anyway, last but not least, John lifted a long object out of the chest wrapped in an oilcloth, and I knew what it was before he unwrapped it; Dai-uy John still had his M-16 automatic assault rifle, the plastic stock and hand grip glistening with oil, and the cast aluminum parts and blued steel barrel gleaming like they’d just passed a company inspection.

He held it toward me with both hands, like it was a sacred object, and our eyes met. I put my hands on the rifle, and we both clasped it for a few seconds. His smile had faded into a sort of stern and faraway look, and I think my own face had the same expression. We both nodded in remembrance of things past — the war, the missing comrades, and the defeat.

Without a word, he re-wrapped the rifle and put it back in the chest. He closed the chest and stood.

Susan and I stood, also, and we walked out of the longhouse into the overcast daylight.

John led us back to the path, and we waved to everyone on our way. At the head of the path, he said something to Susan, and she replied. She said to me, “John wishes us a safe journey, and welcomes you back to the hill country.”

I replied, “Tell John I thank him for showing me his medal, and for introducing me to his people.” I didn’t know if the Montagnards celebrated Tet, so I said, “I wish the Taoi tribe good fortune, good hunting, and happiness.”

Susan translated, John smiled, then said something. Susan turned to me and said, “He wants to know when the American soldiers are coming back.”

“How about never? Is that soon enough?” I said, “Tell him the Americans are returning only in peace, and there will be no more war.”

Susan told him, and he seemed, I thought, a little disappointed. He’d have to postpone killing Vietnamese for longer than he’d hoped.

I reached into my pocket and took out my Swiss army knife. I handed it to John, who smiled. He seemed to recognize the knife, and in fact, began pulling out the blades and the other gadgets.

I said, “That’s a Phillips head screwdriver, John. Just in case you run into any screws. This weird thing is a corkscrew for your Château Lafite Rothschild, or you can screw it into a commissar’s head, if you want.”

Susan was rolling her eyes while I showed John all the handy gadgets on the knife.

John took the dark blue scarf from his neck and put it around Susan’s neck. They exchanged some words, and we bid each other farewell.

Susan and I started down the trail.

She said, “That was fascinating… and moving. He still… well, he seems to idolize the Americans.”

“They also liked the French, which shows bad judgment on both accounts.” I added, “They just don’t like the Vietnamese, and the feeling is mutual.”

“I understand that.” She thought a moment and said, “I can’t believe I’ve been here three years, and I didn’t know anything about any of this.”

“It’s not in the Wall Street Journal or the Economic Times.”

“No, it’s not.” She asked me, “Glad you stopped?”

“You stopped. I went along to see that you didn’t wind up on a cooking spit.”

We got to the end of the path, and I said, “I’ll bet Mr. Loc is hanging by his heels from a tree with his throat slit and the dogs are lapping his blood.”

“Paul, that’s gross.”

“Sorry. I wanted to drive.”

We found the RAV, and Mr. Loc was alive and well, but looking a little annoyed, and maybe nervous.

We got back into the vehicle, and I said to Mr. Loc, “Cu di.”

Susan asked, “Is your Vietnamese coming back?”

“Yeah. Scary.” Most of my Vietnamese had to do with getting laid, but I did remember some common expressions. I said to Susan, “Sat Cong,” which means, “Kill the Communists.”

Mr. Loc did not like that, and he glanced back at me. I said, “Keep your eyes on the road.”

The bad road continued north, and we came to a small place on the map called Ta Ay, a cluster of primitive bamboo huts in a flat mountain meadow whose inhabitants looked Vietnamese. The Viets lived in the villages and cultivated the land; the tribespeople lived in the hills and mountains and lived off the land. It was fascinating, as Susan said, and under other circumstances and without a personal history of these hills, I might have been in a better mood.

We passed through another hamlet, which, according to the map, was called Thon Ke, and the road turned west toward the Laotian border and dropped into a narrow valley, then turned north again and followed this meandering mountain valley until, an hour later, we came to a low-lying area of rice paddies, and a village called Li Ton. The road here was actually the tops of wide rice paddy dikes. The Ho Chi Minh Trail. Amazing if you thought about it; more amazing now that I’d seen a piece of it.

A little more than two hours after we’d left A Luoi, we crossed a new concrete bridge at a place called Dakrong, and a few kilometers further, the Ho Chi Minh Trail intersected with Highway 9, which was two lanes of semi-paved blacktop, partly compliments of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Mr. Loc turned left onto the highway, and we traveled west, toward Khe Sanh.

I said to Susan, “This road was blocked by the North Vietnamese army during the siege of Khe Sanh, from early January to April 1968. Even an armored convoy couldn’t get through. But in early April, we air-assaulted into these hills all around the besieged camp, and about a week later, an armored column with a few regiments of marines and ARVN soldiers forced the road open again and relieved the siege.”

“And you were here?”

“Yeah. The First Air Cavalry got around a lot. It’s nice to have hundreds of helicopters to take you around, but usually you don’t want to go where they’re taking you.”

We continued a short distance on Highway 9. Traffic was moderate and consisted mostly of scooters, bicycles, and produce trucks.

To the right was the plateau of Khe Sanh combat base, beyond which rose tree-covered hills, which were obscured by mist and fog. Geographically, this place resembled the A Shau Valley, though it wasn’t as remote or narrowly hemmed in by the hills.

Historically, Khe Sanh was a place where, like the A Shau and Dien Bien Phu, a great Western army had gathered in a remote, godforsaken valley, to do battle with the Vietnamese. Dien Bien Phu had been a decisive military defeat, while Khe Sanh and the A Shau had been at best a military stalemate, and in the end, a psychological setback for the Americans, who believed that a tie score was no substitute for victory.

We passed by the plateau of the old combat base and came to the town of Khe Sanh, which, like A Luoi, had disappeared during the war, but Brigadoon-like, had reappeared years later.

The sky was still gloomy and overcast, and this was the way I remembered it in April of 1968, a sky as gray and heavy as my mood had been, a place where the stench of thousands of dead bodies hinted at your own fate.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

We drove into the town of Khe Sanh, where substantial buildings of stucco and red tile roofs were springing up everywhere on well-laid-out streets.

We pulled into a big square where a large market building was under construction. Obviously, this was a showplace town, a place with an evocative name that the government wanted to look good for the tourists and newspeople. And, in fact, there were five tour buses parked in the square and dozens of Western tourists were wandering around the market stalls, probably trying to figure out why they were here in this remote corner of the country.

Mr. Loc pulled into a gas station, and Susan and I got out of the vehicle and stretched. I said, “I need a cold beer.”

She said something to Mr. Loc as he pumped gas, and we headed across the square toward an outdoor café.

As we walked, Susan asked me, “This wasn’t the base, was it?”

“No. We passed it on the way in — that high plateau. Khe Sanh combat base took its name from this town that no longer existed at the time. We’ll go up to the base later.”

There were a number of outdoor stalls on the way toward my beer, and Susan, true to form, had to stop at most of them. A lot of the stalls sold two-kilo bags of coffee, which must be the local produce, and some stalls had pineapples and vegetables. There were a cluster of stalls that sold war souvenirs, mostly junk, like jewelry made from scraps of brass shell casings. I spotted some 105 millimeter brass shell casings with flowers growing in them, a mixed metaphor if ever there was one. There were bud vases, which had once been .50 caliber machine gun shell casings, plus the short, squat shell casings of grenade launchers that were being sold as drinking cups with handles welded on them.

Susan said, “Where did all this stuff come from?”

I said, “The United States of America.”

“My God, there’s so much of it.”

“It was a hundred-day siege. This is probably a minute’s worth of ordnance expenditure.”

She wandered over to a stall that had bits and pieces of armaments— plastic stocks from M-16 rifles, the release levers and pins of hand grenades, the cardboard telescopic tubes of M-72 light anti-tank rockets, and so forth. Plus, there were plastic canteens, GI web gear, ammo pouches, bayonet scabbards, belt buckles, and all sorts of odds and ends, the archaeological evidence of an army that once fought here, for sale now as souvenirs to the survivors, who might want to take home a piece of hell.

Susan questioned me about the bits and pieces, what they were and what they had been used for. I answered, then said, “Cold beer.”

“Just a minute. What’s this?”

I looked at what she was holding and said, “That happens to be the canvas carrying case of an entrenching tool. You clip it on your web belt, and the shovel blade fits right inside.”

She put it down and walked to another stall where a family of Montagnards was selling crafts. She whispered to me, “Paul, do you know what tribe this is?”

They were dressed in bright blue and red clothing with elaborate embroidery, and the women had their hair in huge piles on top of their heads, bundled in brightly colored scarves. The ladies wore huge hoop earrings and were smoking long pipes. I said to Susan, “I think they’re from California.”

“You’re a wiseass. What tribe are they from?”

“How the hell do I know? They’re all Montagnards. Ask them.”

She spoke to an old lady in Vietnamese, and both of them were surprised that they each knew Vietnamese. Susan chatted with the old woman, then said to me, “Her Vietnamese is hard to understand.”

“So is yours.”

The whole family was gathered around now, talking away, the ladies puffing on pipes, the men smoking cigarettes. They discussed Susan’s Taoi tribe scarf and showed her their more brightly colored scarves. At some point they started looking at me, and I could tell that Susan was informing them that I was once here.

A very short old man with bow legs approached me, dressed in an orange sort of tunic with a yellow sash around his waist. He took my hands and looked into my eyes, and we stared at each other. His hands were like leather, and so was his face. He said something, and Susan said to me, “He says he was an American soldier.”

“Really? I don’t think he meets the minimum height requirement.”

He kept talking, and Susan translated as he spoke. “He says he fought for the Americans with… the green berets… he spent seven years with them… they paid him well… gave him a fine rifle and knife… he killed… many, many… he said beaucoup, beaucoup… you hear that?”

The old man said, “Beaucoup, beaucoup, vee-cee—” He made a cutting motion across his throat, which I understood very well, having done it myself. I said to Susan, “Ask him if he still has his rifle.”

She asked him and he looked at me and nodded almost imperceptibly.

So, I’m standing there, looking at this incredibly wrinkled old face with narrow slit eyes, and we’re holding hands in the Khe Sanh town square, and we don’t have much in common, except the bond of war, which can never be broken.

Susan said, “He wants to know if you know Captain Bob, his commanding officer.”

I replied, “Tell him I once met Captain Bob in America, and that he’s doing well, and he speaks often of the bravery of his Montagnard soldiers.”

Susan translated this, and the old man totally bought it. He squeezed my hands, then went into the stall and came out with a bronze Montagnard bracelet, which you can’t buy, but which they’ll give you if they like you or if you’re brave. He opened the thin bracelet, put it on my left wrist, and squeezed it closed. He stepped back and saluted me. I returned the salute.

By now, we had a few Americans around us, plus a few Viets who didn’t look happy with this.

I said to Susan, “Tell him thank you, and tell him that Captain Bob and I will be back to organize another Montagnard army.”

She said something to the old man, he smiled, and we shook hands.

Susan absolutely had to have six scarves and sashes of multi hues, and for the first time since she’d been in Vietnam, she didn’t argue price, but gave the old lady a ten.

Susan wanted to take pictures, of course, so she asked the Montagnards if that was all right, and they said it was. I said to Susan, “They’ll cut your head off.” But she took pictures anyway, and they didn’t cut her head off. We all posed for shots, wearing scarves around our necks, then bid one another farewell, and I made directly for the café.

Susan said, “They’re from the Bru tribe. Let me see your bracelet.”

I held my arm out, like a sleepwalker.

She examined the simple bracelet and asked me, “Is there any significance to this?”

I replied, “It’s a token of friendship. I actually have one at home. Now I have two.”

“Really? Who gave you the first one?”

“A Montagnard, obviously.”

“Why did he — or she — give it to you?”

“He. You didn’t mess around with their women, or you’d wind up with your dick on a stick.”

“Good. So, why did they give you a bracelet?”

“Just a token of friendship. They handed them out pretty easily if they liked you. Unfortunately, they expected you to eat with them, and they ate things that were worse than C rations.”

“Such as?”

“Well, nothing as bad as the Viets. They’re into meat — deer, boar, birds, weasels, and other horrible wildlife. They burned their meat to a cinder. But it was the cup of warm blood that was a little hard to get down.”

“You drank the blood?”

“It went well with the red meat.”

We got to the outdoor café. It was nearly one P.M., and the place was filled with Euros and Americans, including backpackers. There were a few guys who could have been veterans, but mostly there were a lot of tour groups sitting together, who I didn’t think had any association with this place; Khe Sanh was obviously on the tour route, and I supposed most of these people had signed up for this at their hotels in Hue. The brochure probably said something like: Khe Sanh! See the actual site where the famous bloody three-month siege of the U.S. Marine Combat Base took place — Relive the horrors of 30,000 men locked in mortal combat from the comfort of your air-conditioned bus. Side trip to a Montagnard village — Lunch included.

Anyway, the tables were full, but I spotted a table for four where only an American guy and a Viet guy sat, having a beer. I went over to the table and said, “Mind if we sit here?”

The American, a big guy of about my age, said, “No. Go ahead.”

Susan and I sat.

The guy said, “My name’s Ted Buckley.” He put out his hand.

I took it and said, “Paul Brenner. This is Susan Weber.”

He took Susan’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. This is Mr…. what’s your name?”

The Viet guy, who looked about sixty, said, “I am Mr. Tram. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Ted Buckley said to us, “Mr. Tram was a North Vietnamese army officer, a captain — right? He saw combat here. Can you believe that?”

Mr. Tram sort of smiled and bowed his head.

Ted added, “And I was here with the Twenty-sixth Marine Regiment, January to June ’68.” He smiled and said, “So Mr. Tram and I were here at the same time, but on different sides of the wire.”

I looked at Mr. Tram, and our eyes met. He was trying to figure out if I had been here, too, and if I was carrying a grudge, or if, like Ted Buckley, I just found this a hell of a coincidence.

Ted said, “Mr. Tram said he would be my guide at the base. Are you guys going to the base, or were you there?”

I replied, “We’re on our way.”

The waitress came over, and Susan and I ordered whatever beer was cold.

Ted looked at me and asked, “Marines?”

I replied with the standard, “Hell, no. Do I look that stupid?”

He laughed. “Army?”

“First Cav.”

“No shit?” He looked at Susan. “Sorry.” Then he asked me, “Were you here?”

“I was.” In the spirit of good-natured interservice rivalry, I added, “Don’t you remember that the cavalry flew in and bailed your butts out?”

“Bullshit. We had Charlie right where we wanted him.”

“He had you surrounded for three months, Ted.”

“That’s where we wanted him.”

We both laughed. This was fun. I think.

Mr. Tram and Susan were both smoking now, sitting quietly and listening.

Ted said to Mr. Tram, “This guy was here, too. First Cavalry Division. You understand that?”

Mr. Tram nodded and said to me, “You arrived on the first day of April.”

“That’s right.”

He informed me, “I remember it well.”

“Good. Me, too.”

The beers came, and we all raised our bottles. Ted said, “To peace.”

We all touched bottles and drank.

I looked at Ted Buckley. He was, as I said, a big guy, but had acquired some pounds since those lean, mean months of the siege of Khe Sanh. His face was weathered, and his hands were rough, so he did outdoor manual labor.

Susan asked him, “Are you here alone?”

“My wife’s with me. She stayed in Hue. Said I’d get more out of this if I came alone.” He explained, “We’re with a tour group. Came up from Saigon by mini-bus. Just met Mr. Tram. He said he’d give me a private tour. Hey, you’re welcome to join us.”

I said, “Thanks. We will.”

Ted looked at Susan and asked, “How’d you get dragged along?”

She smiled and replied, “I volunteered.”

“Never volunteer for anything. Right, Paul?” He added, “You guys staying in Hue?”

Susan replied, “We are.”

He said, “We saw the Citadel there yesterday. Jesus, most of it’s still leveled.” He asked me, “You see any action there?”

“No. I was mostly up in Quang Tri.”

“Right. LZ Sharon. I remember that. What did you do with the Cav?”

“Regular grunt.”

“Me, too. I spent six months of my tour in this shithole.” He said to Susan, “Sorry. I can’t think of a better word for it.”

Susan replied, “I’m used to it by now.” She turned to Mr. Tram and asked him, “How long were you here?”

He replied, “Four months. I arrive in December of 1967, and I leave here in April.” He looked at me and said, “When Mr. Paul arrive, I leave.” He thought that was a little funny and sort of giggled.

Ted regarded Mr. Tram a moment and asked him, “How was it on the other side of the wire?”

Mr. Tram understood the question, thought a moment and replied, “Very bad. The American bombers come day and night, and the cannons fire day and night… it was very bad for us… and for you, too, I am sure… but the bombers were very bad.”

Ted replied, “Well, buddy, I was on the receiving end of your cannons for three fucking months.”

“Yes, war is terrible for everyone.”

It got quiet for a while, then Ted said to me, “Hey, can you believe this? I mean, can you believe you’re back?”

“I’m working on it.”

Ted said to Susan, “You look too young to remember any of this.”

She replied, “I was, but Paul has been kind enough to share his memories with me.”

Ted obviously wanted to ask about our relationship, so before it bugged him too much, I said to him, “Susan and I met in Hue, and I invited her to come with me today.”

“Okay. So, you just met.” He asked Susan, “Where you from?”

“Lenox, Mass.”

“Yeah? I’m from Chatham, New York, just across the state line. I have a small construction company.” He smiled and said, “I dug so many trenches here and built so many bunkers, when I got home, I wanted to sandbag my house and dig firing trenches around it. My old man got me a job with a bricklayer instead.”

Susan smiled.

Ted asked me, “Where you from, Paul?”

“Boston originally. I live in Virginia now.”

Susan asked Mr. Tram, “And where are you from?”

He smiled and replied, “I am from a small city on the coast called Dong Hoi.” He added, “It is in the former North Vietnam, but there is no border since the reunification, and so I move here to Khe Sanh with my family six years ago.”

Ted asked, “Why?”

He replied, “It is an economic development zone.”

“Yeah? But why here?”

He thought a moment and replied, “I remember the beautiful green hills and valley when I arrive here, before the battle… many Vietnamese are moving away from the coast where there are many people. This is, as you would say, the new frontier.”

Ted replied, “It’s a frontier, all right. Complete with Indians.”

Susan asked Mr. Tram, “And you are a tour guide here?”

Mr. Tram replied, “I instruct English at the high school. It is the Tet holiday now, so I come here to see if I can be of any service to the tourists.” He added, “For veterans only.”

I looked at Mr. Tram. He seemed pleasant enough, and if he was with the Ministry of Public Security, it was probably only part-time. In any case, I’d found him, he hadn’t found me, so he had nothing to do with me. Maybe he and Mr. Loc knew each other.

Mr. Tram asked me, “May I inquire about your profession?”

I replied, “I’m retired.”

“Ah. You retire so young in America.”

Susan said, “He’s older than he looks.”

Mr. Tram and Ted chuckled, and Ted glanced at both of us and decided we were sleeping together.

We all chatted awhile, had another round of beers, and everyone hit the backhouse.

Mr. Tram was not the first North Vietnamese soldier I’d met here, but he was the first I’d had a few beers with, and my curiosity was aroused. I asked him, “What do you think of all these Americans coming back here?”

He replied without hesitation, “I think it is a good thing.”

I don’t like to get into politics, but I asked him, “Do you think what you were fighting for was worth all the death and suffering?”

Again, without hesitation, he replied, “I was fighting for the reunification of my country.”

“Okay. The country is reunified. Why does Hanoi treat the south so badly? Especially the veterans of the South Vietnamese army.”

Someone kicked me under the table, and it wasn’t Mr. Tram or Ted.

Mr. Tram thought about that, then replied, “There were many mistakes made after the victory. The government has admitted this. It is time now to think of the future.”

I asked him, “Do you have any friends who were former South Vietnamese soldiers?”

“No, I do not. With my generation, it is hard to forget.” He added, “When we see each other in the street or on a bus or in a café, we are reminded of the suffering and the death we brought to each other. We look with hatred, and turn away. This is terrible, but I think the next generation will be better.”

We all went back to our beers. Oddly enough, ex-Captain Tram would have a beer with two Americans who’d tried to kill him, not far from here, but he wouldn’t even say hello to a former South Viet soldier. This animosity between the North and South Viets, the victors and the vanquished, went on, and it was a very complex thing, having less to do with the war, I thought, than what came after. War is simple; peace is complex.

Ted said to Susan and me, “The bus leaves in about half an hour. I don’t think they’d mind if you came along.”

I replied, “We have a car and driver. You can come with us now.”

“Yeah? Okay.” He looked at his guide. “Okay?”

“Of course.”

Ted insisted on paying for the beers, and we left the crowded café.

We found Mr. Loc where we’d left him, and he said something to Susan, who replied in Vietnamese. This blew Ted away, and he said, “Hey, you speak gook? I mean, Vietnamese?”

Susan replied, “A little.”

“Jesus, who the hell speaks Vietnamese?”

Susan and I and Mr. Tram squeezed into the rear of the RAV, big Ted got in the front, and off we went.

We headed east on Highway 9, and Mr. Tram, wanting to start earning his pay, said, “If you will look to your right, you will see the remains of the old French Foreign Legion fort.”

We all looked, and Susan snapped a picture and so did Ted.

Mr. Tram continued, “The People’s Army occupied the fort until the arrival of the…” He looked at me, sort of smiled, and said, “Until Mr. Paul arrived with hundreds of helicopters.”

This was really a little strange. I mean, here I was sitting ass to ass with this guy who I’d have painted bright red in a heartbeat if I’d seen him here way back when. Or he’d have killed me. Now he was my guide, telling me when I’d air-assaulted in here.

Mr. Tram went on with his tour and said, “This road to your right that intersects here was part of the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and it travels south to A Luoi in the A Shau Valley, the scene of many terrible battles. On this trail, one kilometer south is the Dakrong Bridge, which was a gift to the Vietnamese people from our socialist Cuban brothers. We can visit the bridge later, if you wish.”

Susan said something to Mr. Tram in Vietnamese, and he nodded as she spoke.

Ted heard this and turned around again. “What’s happening?”

Susan explained. “We just came from the A Shau Valley. Paul was there once.”

Ted said, “Oh, right. You guys went from here to the A Shau. How was it?”

I replied, “It sucked.”

“Couldn’t be worse than Khe Sanh, buddy.”

There are descending circles of hell, even in war, and every soldier is convinced he’s in the worst circle, and there’s no use trying to convince him otherwise. Your hell is your hell, his hell is his hell.

Mr. Tram said, “I had a brother who was in the A Shau Valley.”

No one asked him how his brother was doing now.

Mr. Tram returned to the packaged tour and said, “As you see, the fields on both sides of the road are under cultivation. Coffee and vegetables and pineapples are the main produce. During the war, the valley was uninhabited, except for some hill people who had allied themselves with the Americans. Very few of the original inhabitants have returned, and there are mostly new settlers from the coast. They name their villages after their old villages, so when family or friends from the coast come to visit, they need only ask for such and such a village, and the local people can direct them to the new village, which has the same name as the village from which the settlers have come.”

Ted informed Mr. Tram, “We have the same thing in the States. New York, New Jersey, New London, New whatever. Same thing.”

“Yes? Very interesting,” said Mr. Tram, who hadn’t gotten paid yet. Mr. Tram continued, “You see those many ponds in the area? These are not ponds, but bomb craters. There were once thousands of them, but most have been filled in with earth. The remaining ones are used to raise ducks or to water the animals.”

I remembered this landscape when I flew in, and from the air all you could see was the dead brown defoliation, the gray ash, mile after mile of North Vietnamese trenches, and crater after crater, like the surface of the moon.

I imagined Captain Tram and his comrades sitting in their bunkers or slit trenches at night, smoking and talking, hoping for a quiet evening. Meanwhile, six miles overhead, too high to be seen or heard, a flight of huge, eight-engine B-52 bombers all released their thousand-pound bombs simultaneously. The bombs did not whistle or shriek on the way down— the shrieking came from the people on the ground as the hundreds of bombs hit without warning.

Arc Light Strikes, they were called, and they transformed the earth below into a here-and-now hell, as though the nether regions had surfaced to engulf the world. And there wasn’t a bunker built or a tunnel deep enough to withstand a delay-timed fuse, which let the thousand-pound bomb burrow into the earth before exploding. And if the bomb didn’t actually hit you and vaporize you, the concussion turned your brain to Jell-O, or ruptured your internal organs, burst your eardrums, and threw you into the air like another clod of dirt. Or sometimes you got buried alive when your tunnel, trench, or bunker collapsed.

We’d found hundreds of North Vietnamese here, lying down, staring up at the sky, blood running from their ears, nose, mouth, or wandering around like zombies. They weren’t worth taking as prisoners, they were beyond medical help, and we didn’t know if we should shoot them or not waste the time.

I glanced at Mr. Tram, and knew he’d seen this, from his perspective, and I wondered if he thought about it much, or if it was always there.

We traveled about two kilometers on Highway 9, then Mr. Loc turned left at a sign that said, in English, Khe Sanh Combat Base.

We drove up a dirt road that climbed to the plateau. A bus was coming down, and a line of backpackers was climbing up. Within a few minutes, we were in a parking field where about six buses sat, along with a few private cars and motor scooters. Mr. Loc stopped, and we all got out.

The plateau on which the combat base once sat was nothing more than an expanse of windswept grassy field. The misty green hills towered over the plateau, and I could imagine the North Vietnamese artillery, rockets, and mortars up there, firing down onto the open plateau. What military genius picked this place to defend? Probably the same idiot who set up the base at A Luoi, and since both places had once been French strongholds, I thought also of Dien Bien Phu, which was geographically similar. I said to Ted, “They taught us to take the high ground and hold it. I think they forgot Lesson Number One.”

Ted agreed and said, “Jesus, we were sitting ducks here.” He looked around at the hills. “The fucking gooks would fire, then quick-move the artillery into a cave. We’d return counter”artillery fire from here, and the air force would hit the hills with high explosives and napalm. This game went on for a hundred fucking days, and this camp was hell on earth, buddy. You went out to take a piss, and you got your weenie blown off. We lived like fucking animals in the trenches and bunkers, and the fucking rats were everywhere, and I swear to God it rained every day, and the fucking red mud was so thick it pulled your boots off. In fact, we had a guy stuck up to his knees in the mud, and a Jeep tried to pull him out, and got sucked in up to the windshield, then a deuce-and-a-half truck tried to pull the guy and the Jeep out, and got buried up to the roof, and then two bulldozers came and they both got buried, then we called in a sky crane chopper with cables, and the chopper got sucked right in and disappeared. You know how we got everybody out?”

I smiled and asked, “No, how?”

“The mess sergeant yelled ‘Hot chow!’”

We both laughed. Truly, the marines were full of shit.

Mr. Tram and Ms. Susan smiled politely. Mr. Loc, who ostensibly didn’t speak English and had no sense of humor anyway, stood stone-faced.

Mr. Tram said, “Here we are on the combat base. As you can see, there is nothing left here, except the outline of the runway over there, where nothing seems to grow.”

We all looked at the runway in the distance. Susan and Ted snapped a few pictures of the barren landscape and of us.

Ted said, “I was here in June when the bulldozers buried the whole fucking base. We didn’t leave shit for Charlie.”

Mr. Tram, who had once been Charlie, agreed and said, “When the Americans abandoned the base in June, they did not want to leave anything which could be used in a propaganda film, and so now we see nothing. But you see the holes in the earth where the metal scavengers have mined everything that was buried. They have found even trucks that had been destroyed by artillery and buried.” He added, “There is talk of reconstructing some parts of this combat base because when the tourists come, they see nothing.”

I said to Ted, “Hey, I got a job for you.”

He laughed. “Yeah. No fucking way I’m filling one more fucking sandbag on this fucking hill.”

Mr. Tram smiled and said, “Many American marines have been helpful in providing information to the local authorities about this base, and now we have maps and drawings of how it may have looked.”

Ted said, “It looked like a shithole. Red mud and sandbags. No grass when I was here.”

Mr. Tram went on a bit about reconstructing hell for the tourists. I looked around and saw that there were maybe fifty people wandering around, trying to figure out what all the fuss was about. I guess you had to have been here.

We walked around awhile, and Mr. Loc stayed with the vehicle. Mr. Tram pointed to the west and said, “You can see the hills there of Laos, twenty-five kilometers. Near that border is the American Special Forces camp of Lang Vei, which my regiment captured in the early days of the siege.” He paused, then said, “They were very brave men, but there were too few of them.”

I said, “Their Montagnard fighters were also very brave.”

Mr. Tram did not reply.

We continued walking across the plateau, and I spotted two middle-aged American men together, who were having a very emotional moment while their wives stood off to the side and looked away.

Ted noticed them, too, and stared at them awhile, then went over and spoke to them. Big Ted didn’t look like the huggy, kissy type, but within a minute, the two guys and Ted were embracing.

A few minutes later, Ted returned, cleared his throat, and said, “They were artillery guys. Both got hurt when the ammo dump exploded in January, and they got medevaced out.” He added, “They missed most of the fun.”

No one commented on this, though Mr. Tram must have remembered when the main ammo dump got hit by a North Vietnamese artillery round. Guys I knew who had been patrolling in the hills near Quang Tri City said they could see and hear it thirty kilometers away. It must have been a big morale booster for the North Viets, and a bad omen for the besieged marines.

We continued our walk.

Ted stopped near the edge of the plateau and said, “I remember that my bunker was on this side, the south side, about the middle of the perimeter here, and we could see down to Highway 9.”

Mr. Tram said, “Yes? My regiment was also to the south, on the other side of the highway, so perhaps we exchanged some bullets.”

“Hey, I’m sure we did, pal.” Ted asked me, “Where were you, Paul?”

I looked out over the valley to the hills in the far distance and said, “Also here on the south side. We air-assaulted into those hills, near where we drove in from A Shau. They told us we were going in behind the enemy — behind Mr. Tram here — but there were plenty of North Vietnamese troops where we landed.”

Mr. Tram nodded thoughtfully and said, “Yes, I recall quite clearly the afternoon when the helicopter cavalry arrived.” He added, “They bombed us for days before the helicopter assault began and dropped much napalm, and when the helicopters arrived with the air soldiers, we were very frightened.”

I said, “You were frightened? I was scared shitless. Biet?”

Mr. Tram nodded and kept nodding, and I saw he was far away, thinking of the day the helicopters came.

Ted said, “I remember when the Cav arrived, and we said, ‘Shit, now they’re going to run Charlie off, and the fun is over.’ ”

There seemed to be two different versions of this battle: The First Cavalry looked at this as saving the besieged marines; the marines looked at it as the cavalry spoiling their fun. I said to Ted, “I wouldn’t have minded staying home.”

He laughed.

Mr. Tram came back from wherever he’d gone and asked Ted, “Did you have rats?”

“Did we have rats? Christ, we had trench rats so big we thought they were deer. And those were hungry rats. You had to sleep with your boots on or you’d get your toe bit off. I kid you not. These fuckers were mean and ballsy. We had special buckshot rounds for the .45 automatics, and we’d do rat hunts once a day. One time, two rats picked up a case of C rations and carried it into a hole, then one comes back out and tries to swap a pack of C ration cigarettes for a can opener.” He laughed. “That’s balls.”

Susan seemed mildly amused. Mr. Tram was still thinking about rats. He said, “Our trenches were filled with rats. They ate…” He looked at Susan and didn’t finish the sentence, but I knew that it wasn’t C rations that the rats ate.

Mr. Tram said, “These rats carried disease… you understand, the… in French it is les puces.”

Susan said, “Fleas.”

“Yes, and these fleas carried the plague… the dark plague, when the skin becomes black… bubonic… many men died that way.”

We stood there under the gray, gloomy sky, with this constant wind sweeping down from the hills, and three of us retreated into our own thoughts. We could have stood there for a week playing Can You Top This, but what was the point?

Finally, Ted said, “Yeah, I remember now, a cargo plane came in one day carrying this stuff… gamma something.”

I said, “Gamma globulin.”

“Yeah. You remember that? They stuck this horse needle in your ass and squirted this shit into your butt. This stuff was on ice, and I swear it was thick as putty. I had a lump in my ass for a week, and we asked the medics what it was for, and they said, ‘measles.’ But afterward, we found out it was because of the plague. Jesus H. Christ, as if the incoming rounds wasn’t enough to worry about.”

Susan asked, “Did anyone get sick?”

Ted replied, “You think they’d tell us? You went to the field hospital with a fever, and sometimes you got sent back to duty with penicillin, and sometimes they took you out of here on the next thing flying out. Nobody used the word plague.”

I nodded, recalling the fear of bubonic plague, the evidence of which we’d seen among the dead and wounded North Vietnamese. We had gotten gamma globulin before the air assault, and our medics had been mostly up-front about this and told us to avoid flea bites from the rats, and, of course, direct rat bites. And while we were at it, quit smoking and try not to get hit by a bullet. Thanks, Doc.

The First Cavalry had named this operation Pegasus, after the mythological flying horse, but it could more aptly have been named the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse — War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death.

Mr. Tram continued, “So, this terrible siege went on for all of January, February, March, until April. We had perhaps twenty or twenty-five thousand men around this camp, and the American marines had… how many, Mr. Ted?”

“About five or six thousand.”

“Yes. And when we left here, they told us we had left ten thousand of our comrades behind, sick, wounded, and dead… and we had many more thousands with us who were sick and wounded… and many of them died afterward. I lost many friends here and some cousins and an uncle who was a colonel. And I know many Americans died also, so when I left here, I thought to myself, ‘What was the purpose of this?’”

Ted said, “Beats the hell out of me.”

Mr. Tram walked silently for a while, then stopped and pointed. “Do you see that trench out there? It is one of the surviving trenches that we dug. We began digging trenches toward this camp — just as my father and uncles had done at Dien Bien Phu. Each night we dug, and the trenches came closer and closer to your barbed wire. And when we were very close, we would come out of the trenches at night and attack a place where we thought the defenses were weak, and where we could penetrate into your camp… but we could not… and many men died out there, where the barbed wire once was.”

Ted picked up the story and said, “If we thought we saw movement out there, or if a flare tripped, our mortars would fire parachute flares above the area, and everything got lit up like day…” He looked down from the plateau where the wire had once been and said, “We’d see them coming at us, like hundreds of them, real quiet, not shooting, just coming at the wire, and they wouldn’t even take cover, they just kept running toward us, and we’d open up and they’d start dropping like tenpins. Christ, one night one of them blows a fucking bugle, and they all start running and screaming, and my asshole gets tight, and I’m shaking so fucking bad I can’t steady my rifle, and they start throwing those bangalore torpedoes into the outer wire, and the wire blows, and it’s breached, and they come in toward the second wire, and mortar rounds are falling all around my bunker, and I’m afraid to put my face to the firing slit because mortar and grenade shrapnel and tracer rounds are coming in through the slit, so I hold my M-16 up to the slit by its pistol grip, and I’m crouched below the slit, so I can’t see shit, but I’m emptying magazine after magazine downrange… and then I get hit in the hand by hot shrapnel, and I drop the rifle and see that it’s damaged, so what the hell am I thinking when I run out of the bunker and start chucking grenades down at the wire. Five frags and two white phosphorus, and everything down there is burning, including people, and these little… these guys are still fucking coming, and they’ve breached the second wire, and there’s nothing between me and them except the last wire because we’ve blown all our claymores now, and the machine gun got knocked out, and I’m looking around for a fucking rifle… then, all of a sudden, the bugle blows again, and they’re gone.”

Ted stared down the slope of the plateau and said, in a barely audible voice, “And they’re gone… except for a few dozen of them tangled in the wire, or moaning on the ground. So, we go down there and… well…” He looked at Mr. Tram, who looked away from Ted.

We walked around the perimeter of the big camp, and there wasn’t a scrap of anything left, except the ghostly trace of the long airstrip, where, as Mr. Tram said, nothing seemed to grow.

Mr. Tram said to me, “If you do not mind, could you tell me what was your experience here?”

We continued our walk, and I thought a minute and said, “Well, after we air-assaulted in, we made contact with the enemy… with the North Vietnamese army, but it was obvious they were retreating into Laos. We had light contact for the next week or so. I really can’t remember how long we stayed. We saw many hundreds of dead soldiers, many wounded, many graves… and the rats… and there was a terrible stench of death, and the land was devastated… and I had never seen anything like this… the aftermath of a great slaughter, and in some ways, it was more terrible than battle itself. I kept saying to myself, ‘I am walking through the Valley of Death, and God has abandoned this place.’”

We were back in the town square of Khe Sanh again. I gave Mr. Tram a ten and said to him, “Thank you. I’m sure this is difficult for you to relive this.”

He bowed and replied, “I can only do this with Americans who have been here. To the others, it is meaningless.”

Susan said, “Well, I wasn’t here, but you three guys made me feel like I was.”

Ted asked Susan, “Hey, do you think my wife should have come?”

Susan replied, “Yes. Come back with her tomorrow.”

Ted bit his lip and nodded. “She wanted to come… it was me who didn’t want her to.”

Susan said, “I understand.”

Susan said something in Vietnamese to Mr. Tram. He bowed and replied, we all shook hands, and Ted was off to his bus, and Mr. Tram to wherever.

We got back in the RAV, and I said to Mr. Loc, “Quang Tri.”

He pulled onto Highway 9, and we headed east, back toward the coast, to the place where I’d spent most of my time here, when they weren’t air-assaulting me into the middle of another nightmare.

Susan said, “That was incredible. What an experience.”

I didn’t reply.

She asked me, “How are you holding up?”

“Fine.”

“Paul… why do you think you survived this place?”

“Beats me.”

“I mean, half the men who were with Mr. Tram died, and he survived. Ted Buckley survived, you survived. Do you think it was fate? Or skill? Or luck? What?”

“I really don’t know. The dead, if they could speak, would tell you why they died, but the living have no answers.”

She took my hand, and we rode in silence down Highway 9 through the peaceful valley of Khe Sanh, which means the Green Valley, and which must have seemed like a cruel joke to the twenty thousand North Vietnamese who came here and watched the valley turn red with their blood and the bomb-blasted earth, gray with ash, and black with rotting corpses.

And the South Vietnamese, who were fighting for their land, must have wondered if inviting the Americans to help them was a blessing or a curse because no one can level the terrain like Americans, and the destruction must have been beyond anything the South Vietnamese could comprehend.

And for the six thousand American marines surrounded and besieged at Khe Sanh combat base, so far from home, they must have wondered how they wound up in the epicenter of hell on earth.

And Khe Sanh, the Green Valley, had passed into military legend for the marines, right up there with the Halls of Montezuma, the Shores of Tripoli, Okinawa and Iwo Jima, and all the other blood-soaked battlefields around the world.

And for the First Air Cavalry Division, casualties were mercifully light, victory was claimed, we put another battle streamer on our regimental flags, received a commendation from the president, and flew into the A Shau Valley, where fate awaited us in yet another dark and misty place.

I looked at the countryside as we passed through the valley, and I saw it was green again, and life had returned, coffee and vegetables grew over the bones, and the human race marched on toward something hopefully better.

Yet, standing there on that plateau, I knew that I, and Ted, and Mr. Tram could hear the whispers of ghosts on the wind, and the distant sound of that bugle that split the quiet night and roused the beast in each man’s heart.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

We continued east on Highway 9. In the hills, I could see acres of fire and smoke, like the war had returned, but then I remembered that some of the Montagnards practiced slash-and-burn agriculture.

The mouth of the valley widened and the hills on both sides retreated into the distance. The landscape became less verdant the farther east we traveled.

Around us were flat, open stretches of scrub brush and some hardscrabble farms. I recalled seeing this from the air as the armada of helicopters, in nice neat formations, carried us to the hilltop landing zones of Khe Sanh.

I said to Susan, “The DMZ is about five kilometers north of here. This entire strip of land south of the DMZ, from the coast to the Laotian border, was the marine area of operations. The marines set up a series of firebases from Cua Viet on the coast to Khe Sanh in the east. This whole stretch of land was fought over for a decade, and the marines said that DMZ meant Dead Marine Zone.”

Susan asked, “Did it always look this bleak?”

I replied, “I don’t know. This might be the result of defoliation, napalm, and high explosives.” I added, “The motto of the defoliation people was, ‘Only We Can Prevent Forests.’” I had thought that was funny once, but it didn’t seem funny anymore.

We came to the former marine base called the Rockpile, a towering, seven-hundred-foot-high rock formation, which we could see to our left as the road swung east again.

We continued on, and I saw a sign near a dirt road to the right that said Camp Carroll. A mini-bus was coming toward Highway 9 from the dirt road, and on the side of the bus it said DMZ Tours.

I remarked, “DMZ World.” I said to Susan, “When I was back here for Part Two in 1972, Camp Carroll had been turned over to the South Vietnamese army as we were trying to turn the whole war over to the South Viets. During the Easter Offensive of ’72, the South Viet commander of Camp Carroll surrendered to the North Viets without a shot fired. We heard about this down in Saigon, and we couldn’t believe it at first. The whole garrison just laid down their arms.”

It was then, I recalled, that I knew that as soon as the last American soldier left, the South Vietnamese would lose the war, and all the American blood that had been spilled here was wasted.

We continued on and passed through the town of Cam Lo, which would never be a picture on a postcard. There were a number of DMZ Tour buses parked on the street near a café, and I said to Susan, “Just north of here is Con Thien firebase, which as you know means the Hill of Angels, and where a high school buddy of mine was killed.”

We left Cam Lo, passed the turnoff for Con Thien, and continued east.

The landscape hadn’t improved much, and the sky was even grayer as we came toward the coast.

There were a few buildings on both sides of the road now, and there was even a decent-looking four-story stucco hotel with a big banner sign that said DMZ Visitor Welcome Here — Rooftop Restaurant Sees DMZ. I said to Mr. Loc, “Dung lai.”

He glanced back at me and pulled over.

Susan and I got out and walked back to the hotel, named the Dong Truong Son. The lobby was small but new, and we took the one elevator up to the rooftop restaurant.

It was well past lunchtime, and not yet the cocktail hour, so no one was there, except a young man who had to be the waiter because he was sleeping in a chair.

Susan and I took a table by the low wall of the covered restaurant where we had a panoramic view to the north.

I knew this place; I’d seen it from the ground and from the air, I’d seen it on maps, and I still saw it in my mind. I said to Susan, “That’s the Cua Viet River, which runs out to the South China Sea over there. To the east is Con Thien on the Cam Lo River, and all along the Cam Lo were smaller fire support bases, starting with Alpha One to the east, Alpha Two, Three, and Four.” I pointed and said, “Beyond the Cam Lo River, you can see the Ben Hai River, which runs right through the center of the old DMZ at the 17th Parallel, which was the border that partitioned North and South Vietnam. I’ll be going that way tomorrow.”

She didn’t reply.

Susan and I looked out over the still devastated landscape, and from up here, I could see the telltale ponds, some of them running in a straight line, evenly spaced, so there was no mistaking that they were created by a bomb pattern.

She said, “It’s bleak. So much different than around Saigon and Nha Trang.”

“I had the same feeling when I came from Bong Son in January ’68. We came into the winter monsoon, then the Tet Offensive, then Khe Sanh, and the A Shau. Rain, fog, mist, mud, gray skies, scorched earth, and too many corpses. I remember thinking that my father may have had it easier fighting the Germans in France in the summer of ’44, although I never said that to him.”

“Your father was in World War II?”

“He was an infantryman, just like me. The Brenners pride themselves on never having had an officer in the family, or anyone with a safe military job. We’re just South Boston cannon fodder for the wars. I lost an uncle in Korea.”

Susan said, “My father was an air force officer in Korea. A flight surgeon.” She added, “As I said in Saigon, I think you’d like each other.”

“Fathers have a tough time liking guys who are having sex with their daughters.”

“I’ve never had sex. I’m still a virgin. Ask my father.”

I smiled. “Well, then there’s the age difference.”

“Paul, I’m past thirty — my parents wouldn’t mind if you were a Civil War veteran. They’re desperate.” She added, “So am I, or I wouldn’t bother with you.”

The waiter had woken up. He saw us and ambled over. We ordered two coffees.

Susan said to me, “How does it feel sitting in a rooftop restaurant overlooking the DMZ?”

“I’m not sure. I feel sort of… disconnected, like I know I’m here, though it’s hard to think of this as a tourist attraction.” I paused. “But I’m glad it is. None of this should be trivialized, but maybe it’s inevitable that it will be. On the plus side, maybe the tourists can learn something, and maybe the vets can come to terms with a lot of things, and the Vietnamese can meet a lot of Americans and make a few bucks while they’re at it.”

She nodded. “I’m glad I came here.”

The coffee came, Susan lit up, and we looked out over the silent battlefields below.

I said to Susan, “Okay, here’s the brochure copy — DMZ Tours: A pleasant morning in the minefields where you can gather shrapnel and participate in a sandbag-filling contest, followed by a picnic lunch in the ruins of Con Thien firebase, after which we look for unmarked graves along Highway One, and we end our day at the Dong Ha Soccer Stadium, where we’ll see a re-creation of the surrender of Camp Carroll, performed by the original cast. Picnic lunch included.”

She looked at me awhile and decided not to respond.

Somewhere around her second coffee and third cigarette, she said to me, “As if this isn’t stressful enough for you — this return to your old battlefields — you’re probably worried about the trip up country and what you have to do there, and the people in Washington are giving you a hard time, and this Colonel Mang is shadowing you—”

“Don’t forget you.”

“I was getting to that. So, on top of all this, along comes this pushy bitch—”

“Who’s that?”

“This very forward, very brazen broad, who decides to pursue you—”

“Seduce.”

“Whatever. And you’ve got a million things on your mind, and your heart is back in the States, and your soul is on temporary loan to the dead.”

I didn’t reply.

She said, “And yet, Paul, I think it worked. Between us.”

I nodded.

She said, “But I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t go up country with you.”

“I never asked you to.”

“Maybe I’d be more of a burden than a help.”

“I think you should go on to Hanoi, and I’ll meet you there.”

“No, I think I should go back to Saigon.”

This sort of surprised me, and I said, “Why?”

“I think you have to finish your job here, then go to Honolulu… see how that works out, then… give me a call.”

“From Honolulu?”

“No, Paul, from Virginia.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“Then we can both see how we feel.”

“You mean, we have to be in different hemispheres to see how we feel?”

Susan seemed a little impatient with me for some reason and said, “I’m giving you an out. Are you dense?”

“Oh. Where’s the out? I missed the exit ramp.”

“You’re a complete idiot. I’m trying to be sensitive to your situation, and I’m willing to give up the man I love—”

“You already did that. You sent him a fax.”

She stood, “Let’s go.”

I gave the waiter a few bucks, and we rode down the elevator. I said, “I’m sorry. It’s been a stressful day. I make jokes when I’m stressed, and when I sense danger — old combat habit. Don’t mean shit, as we used to say about things that meant a great deal. Xin loi. Sorry about that.” And so forth. By the time we got to the lobby, Susan was holding my hand and telling me she understood, which was more than I could say for myself. I mean, sometimes I’m full of shit, but Susan’s self-sacrificing performance was a whole barn-yardful of it. I know an out when I see one, and that wasn’t it. For better or worse, we were going to complete this tour of duty together.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Back on the road, we drove into the town called Dong Ha Junction, which looked a lot like a truck stop in New Jersey. There was a railroad station, a bus station, two gasoline stations, and a few guest houses. We came to the T-intersection of Highway One and turned south. On the other side of the two-lane highway I saw a building whose sign said, in English, Quang Tri Tourism Office, in front of which were a few tour buses.

Susan asked me, “Do you know this town?”

“I was never here, but I know it was a marine and army logistics base.”

Susan spoke to Mr. Loc, who responded, and Susan said to me, “Dong Ha is the provincial capital of Quang Tri Province.”

“Quang Tri City is the provincial capital. Send Mr. Loc back to school.”

Susan spoke to Mr. Loc again, and then said to me, “Quang Tri City was completely destroyed by the American bombers in April 1972 and has never been rebuilt. This is now the provincial capital.”

“Shit happens.”

We drove south on Highway One, which was nearly deserted, and I said to Susan, “From here to Hue, this was called the Street Without Joy.”

She looked around at the sparse vegetation, and the ramshackle houses, and the occasional rice paddy and said, “Were you guys fighting to hold on to this, or make the enemy take it?”

I laughed. “I have to remember that line the next time I run into someone who was here.” I said, “Somewhere around here is where the marine area of operations ended, and the army AO began.”

We came to a newly constructed bridge that crossed a branch of the Cua Viet River, and I said to Mr. Loc, “Stop.”

He stopped on the bridge, and I got out. Susan followed.

I looked downstream and saw the pylons of the old bridge, and I said to Susan, “My platoon guarded this bridge a few times. Well, not this bridge, but the one that was over there.” I could see the remains of a French pillbox where the old bridge had crossed the river and said to her, “I slept in that concrete pillbox a few times. I scratched my name in the wall, along with a few hundred other names, including guys named Jacques and Pierre.”

She took my hand and said, “Let’s go see.”

“Ask James Bong if he has a flashlight.”

She asked him, and he produced one from the glove box. Susan and I walked about ten meters along the riverbank to where the destroyed bridge had been. The French pillbox or bunker was a round structure, about ten meters across, made of reinforced concrete with a domed roof to deflect rockets and mortar rounds. There must have been a time when boxes of pills looked like this, thus the name, but to me, it looked like an igloo. I could see embedded in the ground at the base of the concrete structure scraps of green plastic, which had been American sandbags. I said to Susan, “We used to sandbag the old French concrete fortifications because the newer munitions were able to penetrate six or eight inches of steel-reinforced concrete, and the sandbags would absorb that direct hit. Still, if you were inside one of these things when it took a direct, it would scramble your brains for a few hours. We used to call it ‘becoming a marine.’ Old joke.”

I took the flashlight from Susan and shined the light inside the bunker. I said, “Looks nasty in there. I can’t even see the concrete floor, just mud.”

She asked, “Any leeches?”

“Not in there. I’ll go in first and throw the snakes out.” I stepped through the narrow slit opening.

The center of the dome was about five meters high, allowing a man to stand at any of the firing slits with plenty of overhead room.

I shined the flashlight around the concrete walls and floor and saw creepy crawlers, like centipedes, and lots of webs with big walnut-sized spiders on them, plus lots of slugs, but no snakes. The walls were all mildewed, but I could see names scratched in the concrete.

Susan called in, “Throw some snakes out.”

“No snakes. But be careful and don’t touch the walls.”

She squeezed into the pillbox and stood beside me. She said, “Yuck. It smells.”

“We kept these things very clean, but no one’s been here since 1975.”

Gray light came in through the firing slits, and I kept the flashlight moving to pick out anything I didn’t want to come in contact with.

Susan said, “Where’s your name?”

I moved the flashlight slowly across the round walls, and I stopped the beam at a grouping of names. I moved closer, avoiding the spiderwebs, and focused the beam on the names scratched into the concrete. They were all French names, and there was a date of Avril 1954. I seemed to remember these names and the date, which in 1968, was only fourteen years before, but to me, an eighteen-year-old kid who had been four years old when the French Indochina War ended, this seemed like the writings of an ancient army. Now, I realized the proximity of the two wars and the passage of time since.

Susan said, “Someone wrote something under the four names. See that?”

I placed the beam on the French words. “It says, ‘This place sucks.’”

“No, it doesn’t.” She moved closer and read the French, “Les quatre amis, les âmes perdues — four friends, lost souls.”

I moved the beam around and stopped at the name of Sal Longo. I said, “This man was in my platoon. He was killed in the A Shau Valley… incredible…”

I found my name, etched into the concrete with the tip of my beer can opener. The letters were barely legible, covered with black mildew. I stared at Paul Brenner’s name, followed by the date of 11 Jan 68.

Susan looked at where the beam had come to rest and said, “That’s amazing.”

“Better here than on the Wall in Washington.”

I looked at my name awhile, then moved the light around and saw a few other names I recognized, and some I didn’t. Someone had scratched a heart and arrow in the wall that said Andy and Barbara, forever. If that was Andy Hall, then forever arrived in May 1968, also in the A Shau. Basically, Delta Company, my company, had ceased to be an effective fighting unit after that three weeks, and the survivors almost all got another stripe on their sleeves, what the army called rapid battlefield promotions, but which we called blood stripes.

I took Susan’s arm and led her to the entrance.

We stood outside under the overcast sky and Susan said, “I can’t believe that. There was your name written almost thirty years ago… and those French soldiers… it’s sort of… sad… almost creepy… I mean, I know some of those men didn’t make it back.”

I nodded.

We walked back to the RAV and continued south on the Street Without Joy.

We passed an airstrip on our left that I recalled was the Quang Tri airport, which was where the army kept their small observation and reconnaissance aircraft. The airstrip was abandoned now and grass grew through the concrete. The control tower had disappeared and so had a huge French watchtower that had been right near the airstrip. I recalled that the concrete watchtowers had once dotted the landscape, but I hadn’t seen a single one so far. In fact, every substantial landmark that I remembered — schools, churches, pagodas, French and American fortifications — had disappeared.

I said to Susan, “Most of this area was damaged during the Tet Offensive, but they were rebuilding when I left. It looks like nothing survived the Easter Offensive of ’72, or the final offensive of 1975.”

She said, “That pillbox survived.”

“Hey, I should have spent the whole fucking war in there.”

Up ahead, on the left side of the road, I saw a big, ruined concrete building that I could tell had not been hit by bombs or artillery because most of the roof was intact. The damage had been caused by what appeared to be a vicious firefight. The walls were pockmarked with bullet holes, and there were distinctive small round holes in the thick walls where concrete-piercing rockets had entered the building and exploded inside, leaving scorch marks on the interior walls. It took me a minute to recognize this as the Buddhist high school, the place where Tran Van Vinh wrote the letter to his brother.

Susan said, “Oh, my God. Look at that building.”

I said, “A Buddhist high school.”

Susan seemed fascinated by the war ruin and took a photo. She said, “You don’t see any war-damaged buildings like this around Saigon — hey, look. A tank.”

Beyond the high school on the side of the road was a huge M-48 Patton tank, the olive drab paint still looking good after thirty years. I should get some of that paint for my exterior house trim.

Susan told Mr. Loc to stop, and he did. She said to me, “Go sit on the tank.”

“You go sit on the tank. I’ve sat on enough tanks.” I took the camera from her.

She jumped out of the vehicle and scrambled up the sloping rear of the tank. She was athletic and agile, I noticed, and climbed like a tomboy.

She got up on the turret and sat cross-legged. I took a picture and said, “I wish all the tank crews looked like you.”

She hammed it up for the camera, and I took a few more shots as she posed, lying and standing on the derelict tank.

She jumped down and walked back to the RAV.

I pointed to the east, where a wall of low hills rose out of the flatlands, about five kilometers away. I said, “I was in those hills on the night the Tet Offensive began at the end of January. We were constructing yet another firebase, and about ten that night we could see what we thought were fireworks, but then we realized it was something else. The radios came alive and reported an enemy attack on Quang Tri City. We were put on full alert and as the night went on, we got reports that Quang Tri City and Hue had been taken from the South Vietnamese troops and that our brigade headquarters, called Landing Zone Betty, which was on the edge of Quang Tri City, was under siege.”

I looked around. “Our main base camp was called Landing Zone Sharon, and it was around here somewhere, but I don’t see any sign of it.” I stared out toward the hills. “So that’s where I celebrated Tet 1968, the Year of the Monkey.” I added, “It was not a lucky year for anyone.”

She said, “This year will be much better.”

We jumped in the RAV, and off we went.

Another hundred meters up Highway One, Mr. Loc turned left where the railroad station used to be, onto a two-lane road that I remembered led to Quang Tri City, about a mile off Highway One. The road was flanked by small wood and thatch houses surrounded by vegetable plots. There were trees here, but probably none that predated the 1972 battle. I said to Susan, “This road used to be lined with vendors selling things to GIs.”

“Like what?”

“Mostly stuff they’d stolen from us. You could buy it back here.”

Mr. Loc stopped the car, then looked around. He said something to Susan, and she said to me, “This is Quang Tri, and the citadel of the city used to be somewhere there to the left.”

I looked to the left, but there was nothing there except more small houses, bamboo fences, gardens, and chickens.

Susan and Mr. Loc spoke, and she said to me, “He thinks the moat of the Citadel is still there, and a villager can direct us.”

“Okay. We’ll be about an hour.”

Susan took the camera out of the bag, spoke to Mr. Loc, and we jumped out. Mr. Loc reached back into the rear, handed Susan the tote, and said something.

We started down a dirt path between vegetable gardens and small houses that were made of bits and pieces of the vanished city and the fortifications that had once been here. I saw chunks of concrete and bullet-riddled wooden planks, and the corrugated metal that the Americans used for barracks roofs, and the green plastic sandbags from disassembled bunkers, and garden paths made of red roof tile. The ruined city and the fortifications had been recycled by the peasants.

I said to Susan, “This was once a small city, now it’s a big village. Back to basics through airpower.”

“Incredible,” she said.

I asked Susan, “What did he say to you?”

“About what? Oh, he’s going to park and leave the vehicle, so he wanted me to take my stuff.”

I nodded.

A few kids saw us, and soon there was a mob of them following us. A few adults watched us curiously from their gardens.

We continued on the village paths, and Susan was looking around. She said, “I’ve never really been in a rural village.”

I replied, “I’ve been in hundreds of them. They all look the same. Except some held Viet Cong and some didn’t.” I looked around. “See that haystack? Once we found a whole room hidden in a big haystack. Chuck was gone, but he’d left some equipment. So we Zippo’ed the haystack, then got carried away and burned some nearby hootches — that’s what we called the peasant houses.” It was all coming back to me, and I continued, “Then there’d be these little holes hidden in the gardens, big enough for one tiny VC to stand in — we called them spider holes, and they were hard to find, unless Chuck decided to pop out and open up with his AK-47. Plus, every hootch had an earth bunker in the garden, where the family would go if the shit hit the fan. But each bunker could also hold some VC, and you didn’t want to go in there and check it out because if you did, you’d never come out again, so you shouted for everyone to come out with their hands up, and usually you’d get a few co-deps who Mama-san wanted to hide from the GIs in case we had things on our minds beside finding Mr. Charles. So, after everyone was supposed to be out, you chucked a tear gas grenade in, and now and then Mr. Charles would come running out with his AK-47 blazing, and you’d waste him, then move on.”

I was amazed that this was all coming back to me so vividly, and I went on, “Buried in the thatch roofs you’d find rifles, ammunition, plastic explosives, and all that good stuff, and you’d arrest the family and turn them over to the National Police and burn their house, though nine times out of ten the poor bastards who were hiding VC or weapons were doing it under threat. One time — and I guess this was funny — we pulled on a water well rope and sure enough, whatever was down there was too heavy to be a water bucket, and so about three guys pull Charles up, his black pajamas dripping wet, his feet in this wooden bucket, and before he got to ground level, he threw his AK-47 rifle up so we wouldn’t blow him away. So, up he comes, looking almost sheepish — like, you found me — and we laughed our asses off, then someone punched him in the face, and he fell down into the well, and we let him tread water for fifteen minutes before we lowered the bucket down and fished him up. Then the same guy who punched him in the face gave him a cigarette and lit it for him, then burned the house where the well was, and we tied Chuck up and put him on a chopper back to a POW camp, and the beat goes on. Day by day by day, village by village by village, until we were sick to death of searching these miserable villages and searching the people and trashing their hootches looking for weapons and wondering when Charlie was going to pop up out of nowhere and blow your head off. And other days, we’d help deliver a baby, medevac some sick kid back to an aid station, put first aid ointment on some old guy’s festering sore, and hand out candy. Acts of human kindness, alternating with acts of extreme cruelty, usually on the same day, and often in the same village. You just never knew how a hundred armed boys were going to act at any given moment. I guess a lot of it depended on how many casualties we’d taken the day before, or if we found anything in the village, or maybe how hot and thirsty we were, or if the officers and sergeants were minding the boys closely, or if they didn’t give a shit that day because they’d gotten a bad letter from home, or they’d gotten chewed out on the radio by a superior officer, or if they themselves were starting to go around the bend. As the war went on, the young lieutenants got younger, and the sergeants had been PFCs just a month before… and the normal constraints of more mature people… you know, like Lord of the Flies… kids can get crazy… and if somebody kills one of the gang, they want blood in return… and so the village sweeps got… they got out of hand, and it wasn’t war anymore, it was kids on the prowl with short fuses, who were just as likely to throw a fragmentation grenade into a family bunker as a tear gas grenade, or just as likely to give Papa-san a box of cookies from home as to crush a lit cigarette in his face if they found a spider hole in his garden.”

Susan walked silently beside me, and I wondered if I should be telling her any of this. I also wondered if I should be telling me any of this. Back in the States, you could forget it, or sanitize it in your mind, or put it all down to false memory syndrome, the result of watching too many ’Nam flicks. But here… here is where it happened, and there was no way to spin it.

We kept walking through the village, the kids following, but not begging or being annoying, like they were in Saigon. These were rural kids, who didn’t see many Lien Xo, and so maybe they were shy; but maybe they had an ancestral memory of big Americans who had walked through their fathers’ and grandfathers’ villages, and they kept their distance.

I said to Susan, “Imagine being a villager — you don’t sleep at night, and you don’t smile during the day. You and everyone around you are on the brink of madness and despair, and you’re totally at the mercy of two armed enemies who say they want to win your hearts and minds, but who may one day rape you and slit your throat. And that was life in the villages of this tortured country. By the time it was all over, the peasants didn’t care who won. The devil himself with his legions from hell could have won, and that would be wonderful because the war had stopped.”

Susan stayed quiet for a while, then said, “I would have joined the guerrillas and gone into the hills to fight. I’d rather die fighting.”

I forced a smile and said, “You’re a fighter.” I added, “In fact, most of the young men and women chose one side or the other and did just that. But some stayed in the villages to plant and harvest, and to take care of aging parents and younger siblings and hope for the best. In any case, if you ever get to a rural village again, when you see people of that age, you’ll understand what they went through.”

She nodded.

As if on cue, an old man stood on the side of the path, and he bowed to us. Susan spoke to him, and he smiled at her Vietnamese. They talked for a few minutes, and Susan said to me, “The Citadel is just up this path. He says he’s a longtime resident of Quang Tri, and if you are a returning soldier, you must be surprised at what you see.”

“I am. Tell him I was with the First Cavalry, and my brigade headquarters was in the old French fort.”

She told him, and he replied at some length. She said to me, “In 1972, the Communists and the Army of the Republic… the ARVN… fought back and forth for the city, and it changed hands many times, and lay in ruins, then the ARVN withdrew toward Hue, and the American bombers came and destroyed all that was left of the city, and killed many Communist soldiers who were in the Citadel and the French fort, and the American base camp outside the city. There is nothing left.”

I nodded.

He said something else, and Susan said to me, “He says other Americans from the cavalry have returned, and they are always sad and surprised that nothing is left of their presence here. He also met a Frenchman once who came to see the fort where he was stationed, and the Frenchman was convinced he was in the wrong place and spent all day looking for his fort, and the… watchtowers, I think he means.”

The old man thought that was funny, laughed, and said something else, which Susan translated as, “The Frenchman expected to find the café where he once drank, and maybe his former… ladies.”

“Hey, that’s why I’m here. Tell him.”

Susan told him, and he laughed harder. Why he got a kick out of this, I don’t know, but maybe he’d done all the crying he had in him, and there was nothing left to do except laugh at the death and destruction.

We thanked the old man and moved on.

At the end of the path, we came to a huge open space, about a half a kilometer on each side, surrounded by peasant huts and gardens in the distance. The space was covered with high grass and small trees, and at first it looked like a village commons. But all around the space was a weed-choked moat, which had once surrounded the walls of the Citadel. Here and there around the open areas, I could see pieces of wall, none of them over three feet high, and a bomb-blasted stone arch stood where a destroyed bridge once spanned the moat.

I said to Susan, “This was the Citadel, sort of like the one in Hue, but obviously it’s in much worse shape. This was the center of the city, and it held government buildings, a hospital, bank, a few cafés, the barracks and headquarters of the South Vietnamese army, and the MACV compound— that’s the Military Assistance Command, Vietnam — American military advisors to the ARVN.” I told her, “Most of the MACV guys were killed when the Communists took the city during the Tet Offensive. Same in Hue. It’s a risky job when you have to depend on unreliable allies for your safety.”

Susan looked around at the open space in the center of the sprawling village. “It looks like a park or a sports field, but it’s completely barren.”

“I guess it’s been left as a monument to a destroyed city and to the people who died here, but I don’t even see a marker.”

“Neither do I… but look, Paul, there’s a bridge across the moat.”

I looked to where Susan was pointing and saw an intact, but shell-blasted concrete bridge that had once led to a gate in the vanished walls.

We walked to the bridge and crossed the dry moat into what was once the Citadel. The kids who were following us didn’t cross, and one of them yelled something to us. Susan said to me, “He says it is government property, and we are not allowed to be here.” She added, “He also said, ‘Thanh Than.’ Ghosts.”

I replied, “That’s what they tell the kids to keep them away from any unexploded ordnance.”

“You’re probably right. Meanwhile, don’t step on an unexploded shell, or we’ll both be ghosts.”

“Stay on the paths.”

“There are no paths, Paul.”

“Well, step lightly.”

We walked into the center of the grassy field that had once been a city, and I said, “The parade ground was about here, and the military side of the Citadel was across the field, over there… I think.”

“You remember this?”

“Sort of. I was here only once, when I had to participate in some idiotic awards ceremony that the ARVN liked to schedule too often.”

“You mean you got an award here?”

“Yeah. And it wasn’t the Good Conduct Medal.”

“What was it?”

“Something called the Cross of Gallantry, after the French medal of the same name. It was the equivalent to our Bronze Star, I think.”

“What did you get the medal for?”

“I’m not real sure. The whole ceremony was in Vietnamese.”

“Come on, Paul. You know why they gave you a medal.”

“Yeah. For propaganda. They filmed the whole thing, and showed it before the feature film — in the six movie theaters that probably existed in the whole country. Our brave American allies, and so forth. The ARVN just took the list of GIs who got American medals for whatever and gave the equivalent Viet medal. I got the Bronze Star for the A Shau Valley without a ceremony, and the Viets gave me the Cross of Gallantry here, with a lot of pomp and ceremony.”

She asked, “Did they give you a copy of the tape?”

I smiled and replied, “It was a film, Susan. I don’t think they had videotape then, but if they did, they’d have sold me a copy, which they didn’t.”

“Maybe we can find the original film in the archives in Saigon.”

“I hope the fucking thing got blown up.”

“You’re so sentimental.”

“Right. Anyway, I stood about right here with maybe a hundred other Americans from the First Cav, and I got kissed on both cheeks by a colonel… it was June or July by this time, and the temperature was ninety degrees on this parade ground, but my reconstituted company, filled with cherries now — that means new guys from the States — were out patrolling somewhere, so this wasn’t that bad. I thought I could hit a few bars in town after the dog-and-pony show, but the U.S. Army was nice enough to collect us all in trucks and take us back to Landing Zone Sharon, which, I guess, no longer exists.” I looked at Susan and asked her, “Am I a great date or what?”

She smiled and put her arm through mine. She said, “This is really an incredible experience for me.”

“Well… this is the last duty station for you. I’ve sort of taken you through my first tour — the Bong Son in November and December ’67, Quang Tri for the Tet Offensive in January and February, then Khe Sanh in April, and the A Shau in May, then back here to Quang Tri Province, where I stayed until I went to An Khe base camp in November, collected my stuff, flew to Da Nang, and on to San Francisco.”

“That must have been a hell of a weekend in San Francisco.”

I said, “I was ready to party hard with a few other guys I knew who I’d come home with… but we weren’t overly welcome in San Francisco…”

She didn’t reply.

“In truth, I wasn’t really in a partying mood anyway, and I stayed a few days in a hotel, getting my head on right… showering and flushing the toilet every half hour.” I smiled. “I slept in the soft bed, watched a lot of TV, finished two bottles of gin, and kept pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming… then I flew home to Boston. But I wasn’t completely right yet.”

“And there was no counseling available?”

I almost laughed. “We’re talking 1968 here at the height of a huge war. You saw a shrink before you got inducted, and they always said you were mentally healthy enough to go off and kill people, but they never examined your head when you came back. And you know what? I don’t blame them.”

“Counseling might have helped.”

“Sigmund Freud in consultation with Jesus Christ wouldn’t have helped. Most of us found our own way back.”

We walked across the moated acres that had once been Quang Tri City, and I stooped down and picked up a piece of jagged shrapnel that the metal scavengers had missed and looked at it. I said, “It could be from a bomb, a rocket, a mortar round, an artillery round, or a fragmentation grenade, and it could be ours or theirs. And it doesn’t make a difference when it hits you.” I gave it to Susan. “Souvenir of the lost city of Quang Tri.”

She put it in her pocket.

We continued walking under the gray sky, and I could see a few Viets across the moat looking at us, probably wondering if we were scouting this place as part of the DMZ tour. Two bucks to cross the surviving moat bridge and wander around the Citadel. The tour operators would throw scrap metal around each morning before the tour buses arrived, and everyone could take a piece home.

I said to Susan, “Okay, here’s another piece of the puzzle. The letter to Tran Quan Lee that was found on his body in the A Shau Valley was written by his brother, Tran Van Vinh, who was wounded here during the battle for Quang Tri City during the Tet Offensive of 1968. Vinh lay wounded in one of the buildings that were here, and he saw something that had to do with two Americans. Do you know this?”

“No.”

“Okay. So, a day later, he writes this letter from the cellar of the Buddhist high school that we saw on the way in, and that letter made its way to his brother in the A Shau Valley.”

“What did he see?”

“What he saw was why I’m here. The question is, Did Tran Van Vinh survive this battle, or the battles of the next seven years, and if so, is he still alive today, and can I find him, and if I do, what can he tell me?” I left out the part about me killing Tran Van Vinh, and then maybe me being terminated.

We continued walking, and Susan finally said to me, “And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“What he saw is important?”

“Apparently, or I wouldn’t be here spending government money.”

“What did he say in the letter?”

“He said he saw an American army captain murder an American army lieutenant in cold blood, right here in a damaged building of the Citadel, as he, Tran Van Vinh, lay wounded on the floor above.”

She thought a moment and said, “So… this is a murder investigation.”

“Apparently.”

She stayed quiet awhile, then said, “But…”

“But.”

She stopped walking and looked out over the empty field. “Right here?”

“Somewhere. I couldn’t tell you where any of the buildings were, but it’s always good to return to the scene of the crime, even if it’s nearly three decades later, and the scene has been pulverized by bombs and artillery. Cops are as superstitious and mystical as combat soldiers, and there’s this feeling that the dead — the ghost — will speak to you, or at least inspire you to find their killer. I don’t actually believe that, but I don’t dismiss it either.” I smiled and asked, “Should we try a séance?”

She smiled in return and said, “I can see how you could be inspired by being where the murder took place.” She looked at me. “But you think there’s more to this than a murder?”

“What do you think?”

“I have no idea.”

I asked her, “Why did they tell you it had to do with Cam Ranh Bay?”

“I don’t know.”

“What could that have to do with a murder during the war?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why is the intelligence community involved with an army Criminal Investigation Division murder case?”

“I have no idea. Do you?”

“I have too many ideas. Some of them fit some of the facts, but none of them fit all the facts. What I need is more facts. You got any?”

“No… except… by the way Bill and Colonel Goodman were getting hyperventilated, it sounds like more than an old murder case.”

I nodded. “You’re very bright. So take a guess.”

She thought a moment, then said, “The murderer, this captain, or the witness, Tran Van Vinh, was then, or is now, a very important man.”

“That’s a very astute answer.”

She forced a smile and said, “I’m getting messages from the beyond.”

We stood there awhile in this place that had witnessed at least two great battles, but was now deathly quiet. Beneath this earth were bones at rest, and perhaps bombs that I hoped remained at rest and had not been waiting for my return.

Susan asked me, “Do you think this man Tran Van Vinh is alive?”

I replied, “Here’s another irony, or coincidence… we were ordered to come down from the hills two days after the North Vietnamese captured the city, and we were ordered to set up a blocking force to interdict the North Vietnamese soldiers fleeing the city… and we did kill a number of them… so, in effect, I or my company may have killed my star witness.”

“That would be ironic, not to mention eerie…”

I nodded and said, “Yet, I feel that Tran Van Vinh is alive.”

Susan asked, “And he lives in the village of Tam Ki?”

“Well, no. That was sort of a cover name. My guy in Hue gave me the actual name of the village.”

“What is the name of the village?”

“I can’t tell you right now. Maybe later.”

“Where is it?

“Way up north.” I added, “Near Dien Bien Phu. You know where that is?”

“Sort of. It’s a hike. And that’s where you’re going tomorrow?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Good. Dien Bien Phu is on my list of places to see. How are we getting there?”

“Don’t know how I’m getting there. I thought I’d take a train up the coast as far north as I can get, then travel cross-country by four-wheel drive.”

“Good idea. The trains start running again Friday. Does that present a problem?”

“I guess it does. How would you get there?”

“Well, if you buy me dinner tonight, I’ll tell you.”

I looked at her and asked, “Do you really have an idea?”

“I didn’t spend all day yesterday shopping.”

“Tell me.”

“No.” She said, “You have no need to know, until you need to know.”

She took my arm, and we turned toward the bridge.

The first thing I noticed was that all the kids on the other side of the moat were gone.

The second thing I noticed was somebody standing in the middle of the Citadel field, watching us. It was Colonel Mang.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Colonel Mang and I stared at each other across a hundred meters of open field.

Susan asked me, “Who is that?”

“Take a guess.”

“Oh… what’s he doing here?”

“Well, for starters, he wants me to walk to him, which I’m not going to do.”

Susan said, “Paul, I know these people. If you make him lose face, he’ll go nuts.”

“You know, Susan, I’m really fucking tired of Westerners worrying about East Asians losing face. Fuck him.”

“I’ll go talk to him.”

“You stay right here.”

She didn’t reply or move.

I noticed two other men a hundred meters behind Colonel Mang, standing on the moat bridge. They were in uniform and were carrying rifles. In fact, even from this distance, I could pick out my chubby friend Pushy from Tan Son Nhat.

Colonel Mang, I noticed, was dressed in a dark green dress jacket, shirt, and tie, which was more appropriate for this cooler climate. He also wore a peaked hat and a holster and pistol.

A wind had picked up, and the sun was dropping below the trees. Long gray shadows stretched across the acres of the former Citadel, and soon it would be dark. I was prepared to stand there until dawn.

Susan said, “Paul, let’s walk about a third of the way. He’ll do the same.”

“Fuck him. I didn’t invite him here.”

“He doesn’t need an invitation. Trust me on this. Come on.” She took a step.

I hesitated, then started walking. Susan walked beside me. I stopped after about thirty paces.

Colonel Mang got the idea and took exactly thirty paces toward us. This was all very silly, of course, but men will be boys when balls are involved.

I took a tentative step toward Colonel Mang, he did the same, and we began walking toward each other. We closed the distance to about ten meters, and the little shit stopped. I stopped.

We looked at each other. He didn’t seem happy, so that made at least two of us.

Susan said, “Come on, Paul. Point made. Let’s go see what he wants.”

“Fuck him.”

Colonel Mang must have not heard me correctly because he said, “Good evening, Mr. Brenner.”

I didn’t reply.

Susan had had enough of the pissing contest and walked up to Colonel Mang. She spoke to him a minute, and I couldn’t hear her, so I didn’t know what language she was using. She turned to me and said, “Paul, why don’t you join us?” She motioned me to come forward.

Well, this had been a hell of a day — the A Shau, Khe Sanh, the DMZ, and now Quang Tri. My brain was filled with war memories, and my body was pumped with nasty male hormones. I had the bad attitude of a combat infantryman, and I was no longer a tourist in Saigon, listening to Mang’s crap; it wasn’t going to take much to set me off. If I’d had my M-16, I could have wasted the two clowns with the rifles before Mang could even go for the pistol on his hip.

“Paul. Come and join us. Please.”

I took a deep breath and walked the ten paces to where Susan and Colonel Mang were standing.

We didn’t exchange greetings, but I spoke without being spoken to. I asked him, “What are you doing here?”

He stared at me a long time, then replied, “That is my question to you.”

“I told you I was coming to Quang Tri to see where I was stationed. So don’t ask me why I’m here.”

He regarded me for a moment, and I could tell that he understood that I’d dropped my firm but polite manner of speaking to him. He said to me, “Well, what did you see? Nothing. I told you, there is nothing here. Your bombers laid waste to an entire province. Is this what you want to see?” He motioned around the empty acres. “Do you enjoy this?”

I took a deep breath and replied, “Colonel, you know very well why the bombers destroyed this province. Why don’t you try to deal with reality as I’ve tried to do since I’ve returned?”

He replied without hesitation, “Reality is whatever we say it is.”

“No, reality is what happened. The massacre at Hue happened, and the massacre here at Quang Tri happened in 1968. I saw it with my own eyes. And, yes, the massacre at My Lai also happened. We all have blood on our hands. Deal with it, and stop pushing the fucking war in my face. I didn’t start it, and neither did you. Get over it.”

He didn’t appreciate the lecture or my tone of voice, but he kept his cool and replied, “There was no massacre at Hue or Quang Tri. There was a liquidation of the enemies of the people. The massacre was at My Lai.”

“What do you want?”

“You can tell me why you and your companion here are trying to contact the hill people.”

“You mean the Moi? The savages?”

“The hill people, Mr. Brenner. What is your business with them?”

“I have no business with them.”

“Mr. Loc says otherwise.”

“Mr. Loc is an idiot.”

Susan chimed in and said, “Colonel, tourists come from all over the world to see the indigenous people of Vietnam. We did the same.”

Colonel Mang regarded Susan a moment, wondering, I’m sure, why a woman was answering for a man. This country was so sexist, I might like it here. Colonel Mang said, not to Susan, but to me, “You were out of sight of Mr. Loc several times. You climbed into the hills in the A Shau Valley. You stopped at a hill tribe settlement. You spoke to hill people in the square at Khe Sanh.”

I said, “So what? I’m a tourist.”

“Yes? And do the hill people give all tourists that bracelet you are wearing on your wrist? Or the Taoi scarf that Miss Weber now wears? And do tourists exchange military salutes with former American mercenary troops?”

I thought about that, and he had some good points there. I replied, “Colonel, I think you’re being overly suspicious, and overly sensitive to the issue of the Montagnards.”

“Do you think so? You do not live here, Mr. Brenner.” He asked, “Would you care to explain your actions?”

Actually, no. I said to Colonel Mang, “Where is Mr. Loc? Bring him here and we’ll discuss this.” I added, to lighten the moment, “I have the constitutional right to face my accuser.”

Colonel Mang smiled and said, “Mr. Loc, unfortunately, had to leave for a while.” He asked me, “Why did you go to A Shau Valley and Khe Sanh?”

I didn’t reply.

Colonel Mang said to me, “Mr. Loc said you told many war stories, Mr. Brenner, and none of those stories involved your duties as a cook.”

I replied, “Mr. Loc doesn’t speak English, Colonel.”

“Ah, but he does. And you know that. You remarked on it to him several times.”

“Correct. So why would I incriminate myself in front of him if I knew he understood English?”

“Because you did not know he was an agent of the Ministry of Public Security.”

“Of course I knew that. I told him I knew that.”

“He did not mention that to me.”

Susan spoke up and said to Colonel Mang, “Then he hasn’t spoken the truth to you. We knew from the minute we met him that he was a policeman. I’ve been in this country for three years, Colonel, and I know a secret policeman when I see one.”

Colonel Mang stared at Susan awhile, then said to her, “I am speaking to Mr. Brenner.” He turned back to me and said, “I do not believe that you knew—”

Susan said sharply, “I am speaking to you, Colonel. And you will answer me.”

Colonel Mang turned back to Susan. “Excuse me? I do not believe I heard you correctly.”

“No? Then understand this—” She switched to Vietnamese and laid a whole lot of shit on Colonel Mang, who I was certain was about to slap her. Then, I’d have to clock him, and then the goons with the rifles would charge across the field, and before you knew it, I’d have Colonel Mang’s pistol to his head, and we’d be in a standoff for the rest of the night, or a shoot-out, or whatever. This was not good. But I let Susan vent.

Before Susan finished yelling at Colonel Mang, he began yelling back at her, and they were really going at it. I wondered what happened to her concern about Colonel Mang saving face. I love it when peacemakers go nuts and try to start World War Three. I noticed, too, that the goons with the rifles were alert and watching. They couldn’t hear much from that distance, but they knew a pissed-off lady when they saw one, especially if they were married. On the plus side, at least Susan and Colonel Mang were still talking — or yelling. If Mang got quiet, we’d have a problem.

I needed to cool this down, so I said to Susan, “Okay. Im lang. Fermez la bouche. Shut up. That’s enough.”

She shut up.

Colonel Mang was really worked up, and even if he hadn’t come here to arrest us, he was thinking about it now, especially with the two goons watching him taking lip from the American bitch.

Colonel Mang got himself cooled down and turned back toward me. He said, as though nothing had happened, “I do not believe you knew that Mr. Loc was an agent of the Ministry of Public Security.”

“Do I look stupid?”

Colonel Mang resisted saying, Yes, you look stupid. Why else would you be here? Instead, he said, “If you are so clever, why did you speak so freely of your battles in the presence of Mr. Loc when you told me you were a cook?”

I replied, “Obviously, I was not a cook. I was an infantryman.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

Because the half-wits in Washington told me to. I replied, politely, “I saw no reason to upset you, Colonel, with the fact that I fought your compatriots here.”

“Yes? But you lied.”

Cops love to pick on a lie. I said, “I lied. I killed North Vietnamese and Viet Cong soldiers, here, in and around Quang Tri City, in Khe Sanh, in the A Shau Valley, and down in the Bong Son. So what? You, too, were a combat soldier, and you killed my compatriots. It was wartime. That’s what we got paid for. Subject closed. You didn’t come here to tell me you discovered I was a combat soldier. What do you want?”

He replied, “I told you. I want to know what business you have with the hill people.”

“None.”

“Then why did you go into the hills?”

This guy was dense, or paranoid. Probably both. I said, “I went to the A Shau Valley and to Khe Sanh to see where I fought. I thought we understood that.”

He thought about that and replied, “Perhaps the lie is that you were never stationed in those places, but now you go there to make contact with the hill people on behalf of your government, and you use the excuse of visiting your battlefields when, in fact, these were not your battlefields. It is the hill tribes you are interested in.”

I needed a second to follow this logic. Apparently, Colonel Mang already had it in his mind that I was up to no good, so he had to make what he knew fit with what he suspected. In fact, I was up to no good, but he wasn’t even close to the truth. Actually, he didn’t have to be; any criminal charge would do in this country.

I applied some logic of my own and said, “If I needed an excuse to go into the hills, why wouldn’t I tell you at Tan Son Nhat that I had an interest in, perhaps, trees and wildlife? Follow?”

He thought about my counterlogic and replied, “In fact, you told me you were not even sure you were going to your base camp at An Khe, which is in the highlands, and where there are many tribespeople. Why were you hiding that?”

“Hiding what? I never went to An Khe.”

“But you went to other hill areas.”

This guy was giving me a headache, and I saw that Susan, too, was getting impatient with Mang’s paranoia and silliness regarding the hill people.

He said to me, “You have, of course, heard of the FULRO?”

I knew that was coming. I replied, “I learned about them at the American War Crimes Museum. I saw the photographs of the mass executions of tribespeople. That upsets the tourists, by the way.”

“Yes? It is intended as a lesson.”

“Why couldn’t you just put the hill people in re-education camps and teach them to be happy citizens? Why did you have to shoot them?”

He looked at me and informed me, “Enemies of the state, who lay down their arms, are given the opportunity to reform themselves in special schools. Enemies who are captured with weapons are shot.” He added, “Anyone, armed or not, who makes contact with armed insurgents is also shot.” He looked at me, then at Susan, and asked, “Do you understand?”

Of course I understood. We did the same thing in 1968, so I couldn’t give Colonel Mang a lecture on due process, guilt by association, or the right to bear arms. It was time, however, to bring this to a head. I looked Mang in the eye and said to him, “Colonel, are you accusing me of being a spy?”

He stared at me, and choosing his words carefully, replied, “I am attempting to discover the true purpose of your visit to my country.”

Well, so was I. But Colonel Mang couldn’t help me on that. I said to him, “Surely you have better things to do during the Tet holiday. Perhaps your family would like to see you.”

He didn’t like that remark at all and said, “It is none of your business, Mr. Brenner, what I do. But for your information, I have been home, and now I have come to speak to you.”

“I’m sorry that you’ve come a long way for nothing, Colonel.”

“I would not come a long way for nothing, Mr. Brenner.”

That sounded like there was more unpleasantness coming. I said, “Colonel, I don’t respond well to subtle threats. You may find this unbelievable, but in my country, as I told you, a citizen can refuse to answer the questions of a policeman, and the citizen has the right to remain silent. The policeman then has his choice of arresting the suspect or releasing him. So, if you’ve come here to arrest me, then do it now. Otherwise, I’m leaving.”

Colonel Mang had probably not been lectured on the limits of police power before, so he chose his own option, which was none of the above. He said to me, “If you answer my questions truthfully, you and your companion can be on your way.”

I looked at Susan, who nodded to me. Having her along, as I’ve said, had its pluses and minuses, and right now was a minus. If I wound up in the slammer under interrogation, I could handle it. But if Mang decided to throw Susan in the clink, too, I’d have a problem.

Colonel Mang said, “Mr. Brenner? I have a few more questions for you. May I?”

I nodded.

He smiled and said to me, “Please describe for me the relationship between you and this lady.”

I saw that one coming, too, and replied, “We met for the first time in Saigon — Ho Chi Minh City — and are now traveling together.”

“Yes? To where?”

“To Hanoi.”

“Oh, yes. To Hanoi, and where are you going between Hue and Hanoi?”

“I think I told you, Colonel. Up the coast.”

“Ah, yes. You wanted to see how the people of the former North Vietnam, as you call it, live and work.”

“That is what I said.”

“And how do you propose to get to Hanoi?”

“I don’t know. Any suggestions?”

He smiled and said, “You could come with me. I have a car and driver.”

“That’s very good of you to offer, but I don’t want you to go out of your way.”

“I am going that way. My family home is near Hanoi.”

“I see. So, I suppose I’ll be seeing you again in Hanoi.”

“You can be sure of that, Mr. Brenner.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Perhaps we can meet at my embassy.”

“Perhaps not.” He took out a cigarette and lit it.

Susan took out her cigarettes and said to Colonel Mang, with a bit of sarcasm, “Would you like a cigarette?”

He ignored her, which was a big improvement over a screaming match. He learned fast.

He drew on his cigarette and said to me, “So, you are traveling along the coast to Hanoi?”

“How else can I get to Hanoi?”

“Well, one could take the long route through the hills, toward Laos, then come back to Hanoi via the Red River. It is very scenic.”

“Are there any hill people there?”

He smiled and didn’t reply.

This was too much fun for one day. It was cold and almost dark, I needed a Scotch, and I’m playing cat and mouse with Sherlock Holmes’s evil East Asian twin, standing in a place where a murder had been committed while soldiers and civilians died by the thousands all around the murder scene. That was why I was here, and this guy is trying to pin a capital offense on me. I couldn’t wait to see Karl and have a good laugh over this.

Colonel Mang returned to the subject of my love life and said to me, “So, you and Miss Weber are traveling as friends. Correct?”

I replied, “As you already know, we share the same bed.”

He put on an expression of mock surprise. This guy needed an acting coach. He said, “But you had separate rooms in Nha Trang and now Hue. And you share the same bed. What an extravagance.”

I replied, “Americans are extravagant in their attempts at propriety and good taste.”

“In fact, you indulge yourselves in whatever you like or want, then attempt to pretend you are simple, virtuous people. I believe the word in English is hypocrisy. Correct?”

“That’s a very good observation, Colonel. Now can I tell you about the Vietnamese? They are the only people I’ve ever met who worship the American dollar more than the Americans.”

“You are insulting me and my country, Mr. Brenner.”

“You have insulted me and my country, Colonel Mang.”

He drew on his cigarette and said, “Perhaps we should get back to our business.” He looked at Susan and said something to her in Vietnamese. She didn’t look happy with the question and replied curtly.

I said, “This conversation will be conducted in English.”

Susan said to me, “He asked me if American women make a habit of sleeping with men they’ve just met. I told him it was an insulting question.”

I said to Colonel Mang, “Do Vietnamese officers make a habit of insulting women?”

He said to me, but not to Susan, “I am trying to determine the true nature of your relationship.”

“Why? It’s not your business.”

“I think it is. You are aware, of course, that your friend here has been sleeping with the CIA station chief in Ho Chi Minh City.”

I took a deep breath and replied, “I am aware she had a boyfriend.”

“Yes? And you know this boyfriend. You told me so yourself. Mr. Bill Stanley. The CIA station chief for all of the south of Vietnam.”

Of all the names for me to pick when I was telling Mang who booked my train reservations to Nha Trang, I pick the fucking CIA guy. But that’s what happens when the bozos in Washington decide you have no need to know something you need to know.

“Mr. Brenner? Why are you sleeping with your friend’s girlfriend?”

I said, “I only know Bill Stanley as an employee of the Bank of America.”

“Yes? So, you did not know your friend was the CIA station chief?”

“You say he is, and he’s not my friend.”

“But you said you went to university together. Princeton.”

I glanced at Susan, who looked confused. Someday, my flip remarks were going to get me into trouble; in fact, the day had arrived. I said to Colonel Mang, “How could we have been classmates when he’s at least ten years younger than me?”

“That’s what I wondered, Mr. Brenner.”

“Well, I was making a joke.”

“What is the joke?”

“It’s hard to explain. Colonel, I don’t know Bill Stanley, and he’s not my friend.”

“But he is a CIA agent. It is perfectly all right. The CIA knows who our intelligence man is in our embassy in Washington. One cannot hide these things. In fact, Mr. Stanley has nothing to do with the Bank of America and is a consulate officer in the Economic Development section. That is not his real job, of course, but it provides him with the diplomatic immunity he needs to carry out his other work. And yet you, Mr. Brenner, his friend, did not know this. Amazing.”

Truly amazing. And Colonel Mang was a little sharper, and more sarcastic and ironic than I’d thought.

“What am I to believe, Mr. Brenner?”

I glanced at Susan, who looked a little anxious. She could have been pissed off at me for using Bill Stanley’s name, but she was probably more pissed off about how this whole thing had been handled.

“Mr. Brenner? What am I to believe?”

I replied, “I don’t know Bill Stanley.”

“But you told me you did know him.”

“I lied.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’ll tell you why. It was Ms. Weber who arranged the train tickets to Nha Trang, but I didn’t want to use her name, so I used her boyfriend’s name. Biet?”

“No, I do not understand. Why would you do that?”

“Look, Colonel, if I knew that Bill Stanley was a CIA agent, why would I use his name in a conversation with you?”

“That is what I am trying to determine, Mr. Brenner.”

“Right. Well, the answer is, I don’t know Bill Stanley, or who he works for, and I don’t know anyone in Saigon, but I remembered his name and place of employment from something Ms. Weber said, so I gave you his name instead of hers.”

He asked, “But why? You have not answered that question.”

“You answer it for me.”

“How can I answer it for you? You should answer it.”

“Okay… I didn’t want Ms. Weber’s name to come to the attention of the police in any way, no matter how innocent the context. She lives here, and I didn’t want to compromise her business activities. You understand that.”

“Perhaps. But I do not understand your connection to Mr. Stanley.”

“There is no connection.” Asshole.

“Ah, but there is. You are sleeping with his girlfriend.” He smiled.

I hated to admit it, but this guy was almost as good and as sarcastic as I was on the job. I said to him, “Answer my question. If I knew or believed that Bill Stanley was a CIA agent, why would I use his name? I’ll answer for you, Colonel. I didn’t know, and I still don’t know. And why should I believe you that he is a CIA agent?”

He nodded. “Why, indeed?” He looked at Susan and asked her, “Do you know that the man you were sleeping with was a CIA agent?”

She replied, “Why would he tell me?”

“This is a very annoying habit of the Americans to answer a question with a question.”

Susan asked, “Why is it annoying?”

Colonel Mang was losing his patience with Susan, who truly could be irritating. He took a step toward her, and I took a step toward him. We all stopped taking steps and stood motionless, but ready.

Finally, Colonel Mang turned back toward me, lit another cigarette without offering one to the lady, and said to me, “So, you do not know Mr. Stanley.”

“I do not.”

“But you spoke to him in front of the Catholic cathedral in Ho Chi Minh City.”

“Was that Bill Stanley?”

“You know it was, Mr. Brenner. Do not play games with me.”

“I was introduced to Bill Stanley for the first time in front of the cathedral, we spoke for about three minutes, as you know, and we have not seen each other or spoken since.”

“So you say. Why should I believe you? You lied to me about your duties during the war, you met a CIA agent on your second day in Ho Chi Minh City, you show too much interest in the hill people, you are vague about your itinerary, and you told me you were going alone to Nha Trang, but in fact you were not. You went with the girlfriend of a CIA agent. So how many other lies have you told me?”

“Two or three.”

“Yes? What lies have you told me?”

“I think I told you how well run and prosperous Vietnam looks. In fact, it is neither. The people are miserable, and everyone I’ve met in the south hates Hanoi. There are more prostitutes and pimps in Saigon than when I was here, and you’ve treated the former soldiers of the Republic of Vietnam very badly, and I know you’ve desecrated their graves and reduced the survivors to near slavery, and as a former soldier, I find this dishonorable and offensive, and so should you. The Hanoi government has no legitimacy, and is not supported by the will of the people. Now, Colonel, you have the real truth, not what you say or believe is the truth.”

Colonel Mang did not look at me. He looked off into the distance while he hyperventilated. He really had a strange look on his face, and his shoulders were heaving. I didn’t know if he was going to faint, cry, pull his gun, ask me for asylum in America, or what. I was going to suggest the lotus position, but he seemed to be getting himself under control without it.

He took a deep breath and snapped out of his trance, or whatever. He cleared his throat and continued, as though he hadn’t been on the verge of a psychotic episode. He asked me, in a matter-of-fact tone, “Mr. Brenner, the Immigration Police in Hue inform me that you took a bus from Nha Trang to Hue. Is that correct?”

Another question I didn’t want to hear. I replied, “That’s correct.”

He mulled that over a moment, then said, “And you left Nha Trang in the early afternoon and arrived in Hue that evening, before midnight. Correct?”

“That’s about right.”

“I see.” He pretended to be digesting this information, and a look of perplexity, almost worry, passed across his face, as if something was bothering him. I knew that look because most interrogators use it. Colonel Mang said, “The officer at the Hue Immigration police station said you told him you traveled alone. Is that correct?”

I realized that if these questions had been asked of Susan and me separately, we might have different answers. I replied, “I never said I traveled alone. In fact, he didn’t ask me. But probably you asked him, and so like subordinates everywhere, he fabricated an answer for you.”

He thought about that, then said, “I suppose, then, I must ask him again.” He said to me, “So you and Miss Weber traveled together.”

“Correct.”

“By bus.”

“Correct.”

“And where did you stay when you arrived in Hue?”

“A mini-motel.”

“Ah, yes. That was what I was told.” He smiled and said to me, “The police officer was under the impression you spent the night with a prostitute.” He looked at Susan, then back at me and said, “But he must have mistaken your description of your traveling companion.”

I said, “The policeman in Hue, like Mr. Loc, needs to understand English better if they’re going to question or eavesdrop on English-speaking people. Don’t you agree?”

He probably did, but he said to me, “My English, I hope, is to your satisfaction. I understand English quite well, but I do not understand your answers.”

“I understand them.”

Colonel Mang smiled and said, “Let me ask you a simple question— what was the name of the mini-motel where you and Miss Weber spent the night?”

“I don’t know. Do they have names?”

“They are usually named by their street address. Does that help you?”

“No.”

He looked at Susan. “Can you recall the name of this motel?”

“No.”

He kept looking at her and said, “I am rather surprised, Miss Weber, that you, who have been in Vietnam for three years, would go to such a place.”

She replied, “Colonel, when you’re tired, you sleep anywhere.”

“Is that so?” He turned back to me and asked, “And did you go to the Century Riverside when you arrived in Hue to see if there was a room available for you?”

“No.”

“And why not? You would have discovered, as I did, that there were rooms available.”

I replied, “I’m on a budget. The mini-motel was very cheap.”

He wasn’t buying that at all, and I don’t blame him. He said, “Mr. Brenner, you say you arrived in Hue Friday evening, and you never bothered to see if your hotel, or any other Western hotel, or even a guest house, had a room available for you and your traveling companion. Instead, you say you went from Hue bus station to a mini-motel frequented almost exclusively by prostitutes and their men, and you took a room there, but you do not remember the hotel. Then at 12:35 P.M. the next day, you register at the Century Riverside Hotel, alone, then approximately twenty minutes later, Miss Weber arrives and requests a room. Then, at some point, you meet in the lounge, and after a while, you retire to your rooms — or Mr. Brenner’s room. Am I understanding this correctly?”

I replied, “You are.”

“And yet, none of it makes any sense to me. Perhaps you can explain to me your actions.”

This was clearly not going well, and it wasn’t going to get any better. I said to Colonel Mang, “Colonel, Ms. Weber and I are having a clandestine affair. Do you understand?”

He kept staring at me.

I continued, “We’re trying to avoid any possible confrontation with Mr. Stanley, which explains all of our actions.”

Colonel Mang didn’t think so. He said, “I am no less confused, Mr. Brenner, but let me continue.” He looked at Susan and me again, then said, “You are a handsome couple. The sort of people who would not be easily forgotten. And so, I had the police in Nha Trang question the two bus drivers who drove the noon and one P.M. buses. And neither of these drivers remembers a middle-aged Western couple of any description on their bus. In fact, aside from a few Western backpackers, both buses were filled only with Vietnamese.” He paused. “It seemed odd to me that you would travel by bus.”

I replied, “There was no other transportation available, and you know that. I was on the one P.M. bus from Nha Trang to Hue, and again, Colonel, someone has given you incorrect information.”

“Yes? So much incorrect information. From different people.” He looked at Susan and asked her, “And you, too, were on that bus?”

“That’s right.”

He thought awhile, or pretended to, then said, “Unfortunately, I believed this incorrect information from the bus drivers, that you were not on these buses, so I made further inquiries. I first inquired of Vidotour if either of you hired a car and driver, and they informed me that you had not. They keep very careful records, and so, of course, that is correct information. Then I began making inquiries of private tour operators.” He looked at me and asked, “And do you know what I discovered?”

I didn’t reply to the rhetorical question. In fact, I doubted if Mang had been able to contact any of those people during this holiday period.

Colonel Mang kept staring at me, and neither of us played a card. Finally, he said, “Nothing. But we are still making inquiries in Nha Trang.”

I said nothing.

He added, “I think, Mr. Brenner, that you and Miss Weber came to Hue via a private mini-bus, or more likely a private car and driver. I believe my instructions to you, Mr. Brenner, were clear. You were not to travel by private transportation.”

I needed to respond to this and said, “Colonel, I think I’ve had enough of your questions, your suspicions, and your sarcasm. I don’t know what the purpose of this is, but I’m going from Hue directly to Hanoi, and I’m making a formal complaint to my embassy, then I’m leaving the country. And when I return to Washington, I’m making a complaint directly to the State Department. Your behavior is unacceptable and unwarranted.”

He didn’t seem concerned about any of this; by now, he was certain he had something on me, and he seemed more confident. He said to me, “I think I will discover that you hired a car and driver to take you to Hue, and that you stopped some place for the night, and perhaps deviated from your direct route to Hue. And when I find that driver, I will question him about what you did, and who you saw or met with on your journey. Unless, of course, you would like to tell me now.”

I didn’t want to tell him I killed two policemen on the way, so I replied, “I have nothing further to say to you.”

“Well, I have more things to say to you.” He lit another cigarette and said, “The policeman you spoke to in Hue informed me that you were very uncooperative.”

I didn’t reply.

“He said you attempted to leave his office without permission.”

I couldn’t resist replying, “Not only did I attempt to leave his office, I did, and he didn’t stop me.”

Colonel Mang seemed a bit surprised. Clearly, his subordinates told the boss what they wanted to tell him. Oddly, I think he believed me and not them, which maybe wasn’t so odd; in a police state, everyone is terrified of the truth.

He said to me, “I believe if you put yourself in my situation, you would see that my questions and suspicions are indeed warranted. There is a great deal of what you call circumstantial evidence to suggest that your purpose here is not tourism. And then we have the lies you told me, and which you now attempt to correct.”

I replied, “I think, Colonel, other people have lied to you, or misled you, or made false assumptions. If I were a policeman, I’d go back and question everyone again, and I’d see if I was barking up the wrong tree. Biet?”

He turned to Susan, who said something to him in Vietnamese. He nodded and looked back at me. “Interesting expression. But I am not a dog.”

I resisted a reply.

He said, “I had the impression from Mr. Stanley’s faxes to Miss Weber at the Grand Hotel that your affair was not so clandestine.”

I replied, “Which is why we’re trying to avoid Mr. Stanley.”

“Yes? Is the CIA station chief so stupid that you think you can avoid him by staying in a mini-motel for one night, then checking into a hotel that almost all Westerners use?” He added, “I may have believed you were trying to avoid Mr. Stanley if you had stayed for your entire time in Hue at the mini-motel where they do not ask for passports or visas.”

“Right. We should have done that. Anything else?”

“Yes. How does your lady friend, Kay, know of your involvement with Miss Weber? And why is this lady friend warning you against this involvement?”

“Why don’t you stop reading my mail?”

“It is my job to read your mail, Mr. Brenner. Answer my question.”

This was an easy one, and despite my anger at Colonel Mang’s snooping, I replied, “I faxed her from Nha Trang about my new romance, and I believe she’s jealous. I assume you know something about women, Colonel, so you understand. Also, your question is another example of your barking up the wrong tree.”

“Is it? Then let me ask you a question about your fax response to Kay. You said, ‘If you sleep with the enemy, you know where they are at night.’” He looked at Susan, then me, and asked, “So, is this lady here the enemy you referred to?”

I glanced at Susan, then looked back at Mang and replied, “It’s an idiomatic expression. You should not take all the English you hear or read literally.”

“Yes? Well, I thank you, Mr. Brenner, for that lesson.”

“You’re quite welcome. And stop reading my mail.”

“I find it interesting. You also said in your response to Kay… let me try to recall…” He recited the last paragraph verbatim, “‘The long shadows of the past do indeed still stretch from here to there, but the shadows in my mind and in my heart are fading, so if you don’t hear from me for a long time, know that I have found what I was looking for, and that I have no personal regrets about this journey. My love to C.’”

I didn’t look at Susan, but kept staring at Colonel Mang. I didn’t mind too much that he was trying to stick me with a capital offense, but he was making my love life more difficult than it already was.

Colonel Mang asked, “Why would Kay not hear from you for a long time? And what is it that you found here that you were looking for?”

I took a deep breath and replied, “I have found inner peace and happiness.”

“Yes? Where? At Khe Sanh? The A Shau Valley? Hue? Here?”

“You’re upsetting my karma, Colonel. Change the subject.”

“You do not like any of my subjects.”

“Try again.”

“Perhaps I should try at police headquarters in Hanoi.”

“Fine. Let’s go.”

He didn’t understand bluffing very well, and he seemed surprised. He cleared his throat and said, “In due time, Mr. Brenner.”

I looked at my watch.

He said, “Am I keeping you from an appointment?”

“You’re keeping me from my dinner.”

He ignored that and asked Susan, “Are you married to another American?”

She replied, “Why don’t you check my work visa application?”

“I did. You stated you were unmarried.”

“Then there’s your answer.”

He added, “And there seems to be no evidence of a husband in your apartment.” He smiled.

Susan stared at him. I mean, this is the lady who had a little fit when she realized someone had been in her hotel room in Nha Trang. Now she finds out that Colonel Mang has been through her apartment. She took a deep breath and said something to him in Vietnamese. It was a short sentence, in a soft voice, but whatever she said, Colonel Mang’s face tightened like someone was sticking something up his ass. I had requested that the conversation be in English, but sometimes you need to use the native language to say, “Fuck you, asshole.”

I looked at Colonel Mang, who was undoubtedly thinking ahead to a time when he could speak to us separately with the help of electric shocks to the genitals and breasts.

I was waiting for him to ask me about New Year’s Eve at the Phams’, or Sunday, New Year’s Day, with Mr. Anh, but he wasn’t asking, which worried me more than if he had. It occurred to me that if Colonel Mang were very clever, he’d be purposely giving me the impression he was barking up the wrong tree regarding the FULRO. In fact, he may know something about my real purpose here, though there was no way he could know — except if he’d arrested Mr. Anh.

I actually wanted him to ask me about Saturday and Sunday, but instead, he brought up a much worse subject. He looked directly at me and played his trump card. He said, “Eventually we will discover how you traveled from Nha Trang to Hue. We will also discover if you have any knowledge of an automobile accident that occurred on Highway One outside Nha Trang, in which two police officers were killed.”

I looked him right in the eye and said, “Colonel, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. But you’ve accused me of everything from itinerary violations to sexual misdeeds, spying, being in contact with the FULRO, and now something about an automobile accident. This is outrageous. I won’t stand here one more second and listen to this.”

I took Susan’s arm and walked away.

Colonel Mang shouted, “Stop! Do not take one more step.”

I let go of Susan’s arm and walked directly up to Colonel Mang, very close.

We looked into each other’s eyes, and he said to me in a quiet voice, “I could shoot both of you right here and now, and throw your bodies into that moat for the dogs to eat.”

“You could try. But you’d better be very fast with your gun if you’re going to stand this close to me.”

Colonel Mang took a step back, and I took a step toward him. He reached for his gun, and Susan shouted, “No!” She yelled something in Vietnamese, rushed toward us, and grabbed my arm, trying to pull me away from Mang.

I looked over Colonel Mang’s shoulder and saw the two goons running across the field.

Colonel Mang took another step back, heard the sounds of running footsteps behind him, and motioned for the two men to stop, which they did.

He took another step back and said to both of us, “You have threatened an officer of the Socialist Republic, and for that I could arrest you and have you imprisoned for ten years.” He looked at Susan, “Correct?”

Susan replied, “You don’t need an excuse or a charge, and you know it.”

He looked at her and said, “You have been in this country for far too long, Miss Weber. It may be time for you to leave.”

My sentiments exactly.

But Susan replied, “I’ll leave when I’m ready to leave.”

“You will leave when I have you expelled.”

“Go ahead and try it.”

He glared at her and said, “In fact, Miss Weber, it may be time for your whole company to leave.”

She sort of smirked and said, “My company, Colonel, has more influence in Hanoi than you do.”

Colonel Mang did not like this. I could almost see him pining for the days when a pistol shot in the head resolved annoying problems. But there was a new reality out there, and neither Colonel Mang nor I completely understood it.

Colonel Mang took a deep breath and said to Susan, “Hanoi is a long distance from Ho Chi Minh City. If you stay, Miss Weber, your pleasant life in your expensive apartment with your servants, and your illegal motorcycle, and your evenings at the Q-Bar will no longer be as pleasant or peaceful.” He smiled and added, “In fact, I think you should stay in Vietnam.”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

We had really pissed this guy off, and I knew he had some parting words for me, which I hoped were, “Mr. Brenner, your visa is canceled. Go home.” Okay.

He turned to me, smiled wickedly, and said, “Have a pleasant and safe journey to Hanoi. I may see you there. But perhaps not.”

“I plan to be there.”

He looked again at Susan and said to her, “Remove the film from your camera and give it to me.”

“I will not.”

He motioned to the two men behind him, and they came forward. Pushy and I made eye contact, and he smiled.

I said to Susan, “Give him the film.”

She hesitated, took the camera from her tote bag, and instead of taking out the film, she snapped a picture of Colonel Mang. This was not a Kodak moment.

He shouted, “The film! Now!”

She opened the camera, ripped the partially exposed film out, and threw it on the ground.

Pushy retrieved it, and he looked up at Susan with an expression of surprise, bordering on awe, as if to say, “You don’t fuck with a colonel in the MPS, lady. You nuts?”

Colonel Mang decided to break off the confrontation while he was ahead on points. He looked at me and said, “You and I, Mr. Brenner, survived many brutal battles here. It would be very ironic if you did not survive your vacation.”

My thoughts exactly.

He turned and walked away across the desolate field with his two henchmen. Pushy turned his head toward us as he walked and made a cutting motion across his throat.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The sky was dark now, and we stood there in the cold wind.

Finally, Susan spoke. “I’m shaking.”

“It got cold.”

“I’m shaking with fear, Paul.”

I knew what she meant. “You did fine. Terrific, actually.”

She lit a cigarette and her hand trembled, which it hadn’t in the presence of Colonel Mang.

I said, “Let’s roll.”

We started walking toward the bridge.

Susan asked me, “Did you two get along a little better in Saigon?”

“A little, but not much.”

She thought a moment, then said, “Weird, but I think he… he has some positive feelings toward you. Don’t laugh.”

I replied, “The cat has positive feelings toward the mouse. Lunch.”

“No, it’s more than that. There’s something between you… like a game, a challenge, a respect—”

“We’re bonding. But you know what? If I had a shovel and he had a machete, someone’s head would wind up on a pole.”

She didn’t reply, and we kept walking across the dark acres of the former Citadel. Susan said, “We lost all those good shots of Chief John’s village, Khe Sanh… everything. That really pisses me off.”

“You should have asked for a confiscated property receipt.”

“Now we have to come back and take more photos.”

“Not in this lifetime, sweetheart.”

“We’ll be back here someday.”

I didn’t reply.

She said, “He was going for his gun, Paul.”

“Don’t piss off people who have guns.”

“You pissed him off,” she reminded me.

“I was trying to bond with him. It came out wrong.”

She ignored that and said, “This makes the rest of the trip more difficult.”

“It makes it more challenging.”

We crossed the small bridge over the moat and headed back through the paths of the village toward the road.

There were electric lights in the houses that we passed, and I could smell the distinctive odor of charcoal in the cool, humid air. This was the smell I most remembered at twilight in the winter of 1968.

Susan said to me, “Sorry I didn’t tell you about Bill sooner.”

I replied, “It wasn’t your place to tell me.” I smiled and said, “So I need a name, and I use the name of the CIA station chief. Nice going, Brenner.”

She held her cigarette between her middle fingers, Viet style, and said in a Vietnamese accent, “So, Mr. Brenner, you have made contact with the hill people. Yes? And Miss Weber informs me you are going to organize them into an army. Yes? And you will own the hills. Yes?”

“Not funny. Hey, do you think Mr. Loc is waiting for us?”

“I very much doubt that.”

We kept walking through the dark village, and at night it was difficult to find the main path from the road where Mr. Loc had left us. I could smell fish cooking and rice steaming in the humid air.

We came to the road, and I said, “Mr. Loc did not wait for us. Too bad. I wanted to break his neck. How do we get back to Hue?”

“I don’t know. You want to stay in Quang Tri City?”

“There is no Quang Tri City,” I said.

“Maybe there’s a guest house. Or I’ll bet we could stay in any one of these houses for a few dollars.”

“They’d have to pay me. Let’s get on the highway.”

We walked toward Highway One over a kilometer away. I said, “That bastard left us here in the middle of nowhere.”

We got to the highway, but there weren’t any vehicles in sight, and it was two days into the new moon, so it was pitch dark.

Susan looked around, then said, “The buses go up and down Highway One until maybe midnight. I’ll go check with a local. You stay here and flag down a bus, if one comes along. They stop if you flag them down.”

Susan went into the closest hootch, about thirty meters down the road, and I waited.

I thought about the day and realized I’d done a five-month tour of combat duty in an afternoon. I may have wanted to linger awhile in the A Shau or Khe Sanh, but maybe enough was enough. I knew I’d never be back.

I thought also about all the stuff I’d filled Susan’s head with and decided that that, too, was enough.

Susan came back up the road and said, “We’re invited for dinner and to stay overnight.” She added, “We missed cocktails.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“Rice.”

“Long grain or sticky?”

“Sticky. There will be a bus along within half an hour. It’s a local.”

“When does it get to Hue?”

“When it gets there.”

“Did you have fun today?”

“Paul, I had an incredible day, and I truly thank you. The question is, How are you?”

“I’m fine. When I’m not fine, I’ll let you know.”

She lit a cigarette. “This war… that war was unimaginable. I can’t even begin to comprehend how you and the others lived like that for a whole year.”

Not everyone lived the whole year, but I didn’t say that.

We stood silently on the blacktop of Highway One and waited for headlights going south.

Susan asked, “What if an army patrol comes by? Do we duck out, or just stand here?”

“Depends on the mood I’m in.”

“Well, we’re waiting to flag down the Hue bus. Ten-dollar fine.”

“This place sucks.”

Susan replied, “The people are mostly nice. That family I just spoke to practically begged me to stay for dinner.”

“Peasants are nice. Cops, politicians, and soldiers suck.”

“You’re a cop and a soldier. You’re nice.”

“Sometimes.” I said, “Colonel Mang wants to kick you out. Why don’t you go?”

“Where am I going to?”

“Lenox, Massachusetts.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

She asked me, “Why don’t you go back to Boston instead of living in Virginia?”

“There’s nothing for me in Boston.”

“What’s in Virginia?”

“Nothing.”

She stared at the glow of her cigarette awhile, then asked, “Why don’t we go someplace together?”

“You have to quit smoking.”

“Can I have one after sex?”

“That’s still half a pack a day.”

She laughed. “Deal.”

The headlights of a big vehicle approached from the north, and I could see the lit windows of a bus. I stood out on the deserted highway and waved.

The bus stopped, the door opened, and we got on. I said to the driver, “Hue.”

He looked at Susan and me with curiosity and said, “One dollar.”

Best deal in town, so I gave him two, and he smiled.

The bus was half empty, and we found two seats together. The seats were wood, and the bus was old, maybe French. The passengers were looking at us. I guess we didn’t look like bus people.

The bus continued south down the dark highway and stopped in every little village, and whenever someone flagged it down. People got on and people got off. Susan was happy to be on a smoking bus, which was one hundred percent of the bus fleet. She held my hand and looked out the window at the black, desolate terrain.

There was not one major town between the dead city of Quang Tri and the resurrected city of Hue. But at some point, the countryside started to look better, from the little we could see — houses, lights, rice paddies — and I had the feeling we’d passed out of Quang Tri Province and into the province of Hue.

I thought about Quang Tri. I would’ve liked to have seen my old base camp, Landing Zone Sharon, or the old French fort named Landing Zone Betty. But those places where I’d spent most of a year existed now only in my mind, and in a few faded photographs. It was strange to feel any nostalgia for a war zone, but those places — the base camps, the vendor stalls, the whorehouses and massage parlors, the hospital where we’d donated food and medicine, the Buddhist and Catholic schools where we’d given paper and pens from our monthly allotment, the church where we’d befriended the old Viet priest and the nun — were all gone now, obliterated from the earth and from the memories of everyone except the oldest of us.

Maybe I’d waited too long to return. Maybe I should have come back before so many of the visible and psychological scars had healed, before most of that wartime generation had died or grown too old. I may have seen something different here ten or fifteen years ago; more rubble, and more amputees, and more poverty, to be sure. But also some of the old Vietnam, before the DMZ tour buses and Cong World, and backpackers, and Japanese and American businesspeople.

But life goes on, things get better — Quang Tri Province notwithstanding — and one generation passes away, and another is born.

I said, “Sorry if I upset your pleasant life here.”

“It wasn’t that pleasant. I asked for a little excitement, and I got it. I asked about the war, and you told me.”

“I’m done with that.”

The bus continued on, and we didn’t speak for some time, then I asked her, “How are we getting up country tomorrow?”

“Elephant.”

“How many elephants?”

“Three. One for you, one for me, and one for my clothes.”

I smiled.

She asked me, “Do you think Colonel Mang will be following us?”

“I’ll see that he isn’t.” I added, “You’re leaving the gun here.”

She didn’t reply.

We retreated into our separate thoughts as the old bus chugged on over the bad road. Finally, Susan said, “I’m not upset about that fax.”

“Good. Which fax?”

“The one where you said, ‘Sleeping with the enemy,’ and ‘Love to C.’”

I didn’t reply.

She changed the subject and said, “When Colonel Mang mentioned the police car accident, my heart stopped.”

Again, I didn’t reply.

She said, “What if he finds Mr. Cam or Mr. Thuc?”

I replied, honestly, “Then we’ve got a big problem.”

“Paul, I’m frightened.”

I didn’t reply.

“Maybe we should get out of the country before we get charged with murder.”

“That’s a good idea. You should fly to Saigon tomorrow and get out.”

“And you?”

“I need to push on. I’m not available to Colonel Mang after I head up country tomorrow. Then when I get to Hanoi, I’ll call a guy in the embassy and have him get me inside. After that, it’s up to Washington and Hanoi to cut a deal to get me home.” I added, “I hope it costs Washington at least a billion in foreign aid.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“Susan, go home. Fly to Saigon and catch the first plane out.”

“I will if you will.”

“I can’t.”

She said, “Your Vietnam luck has run out, Paul.”

I didn’t reply.

I thought about our encounter with Colonel Mang in the desolate ruins of the Quang Tri Citadel, and I recalled the South Vietnamese colonel, probably dead now or re-educated, who had pinned the medal on me. Two very different occasions, but the same place. Actually, it wasn’t the same place; time and war had changed that place from a field of honor to a wasteland so crowded with ghosts that I swear I could feel their cold breaths on my face.

The bus continued on toward Hue.

Susan, coming out of her thoughts, said, “Plus, he was insulting. He practically accused me of being a slut.”

“You should have slapped him. Hey, what did you say to him about searching your apartment?”

She hesitated, then replied, “Well, I asked him if he masturbated while he was searching my underwear drawer.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I felt violated. I was angry.”

“Anger, Ms. Weber, is a luxury you can’t afford here.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Notice, however, he didn’t deny it.”

I laughed. But it wasn’t funny. Colonel Mang hadn’t thought so, either. He was probably in the Hue police station by now testing his electrodes.

An hour after we left Quang Tri City, the bus came into the northern end of Hue, and stopped at the An Hoa bus station, just outside the walls of the Citadel. This seemed to be the last stop, so we got off. A taxi took us to the Century Riverside Hotel.

There were no faxes or other messages for us at the front desk, making me believe that everyone in Saigon and Washington had the utmost confidence in my ability to carry out the mission; or maybe they were all just fed up with Susan and me. In either case, no news is good news.

We hit the bar before the bathrooms, showing where our priorities lay.

We hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast, but strangely I had no appetite for anything but Scotch whiskey. Susan, too, drank dinner.

At about 10 P.M., we retired to my suite and sat on the terrace with beers from the mini-bar and watched the city and the river through the mist.

She said to me, “In Saigon, I told you that for people of my generation, Vietnam was a country, not a war. Do you remember that?”

“I do. Pissed me off.”

“I can see now why it would. Well, I hope I’ve shown you the country as well as you’ve shown me the war.”

“You have. I learned some things.”

“Me, too. And did you work through some things?”

“Maybe. I won’t really know until I’m home for a while.”

Dark storm clouds had rolled in from the north, and it began to rain. A flash of lightning lit up the city and the river, and the bolt crackled to the earth, followed by the distant sound of rolling thunder, like an artillery barrage.

The rain blew in on the terrace but we sat there drinking, and within a few minutes, we were soaking wet and cold.

It was easy to imagine it was the winter of 1968 again; the Tet Offensive was raging, and to the north of here, the city of Quang Tri lay burning across the flooded rice paddies, and we were dug into night positions, into the mud, and we waited for the retreating enemy army trying to reach the hills behind us, pursued by the American and South Vietnamese troops. Hammer and anvil, it was called. We were the anvil, the pursuing troops were the hammer, and the poor bastards in between were hamburger meat.

I may have seen Tran Van Vinh that night and may have fired a burst of rounds at him. I would have to ask him, when I saw him, how he’d escaped from the cauldron of the embattled city.

Susan asked me, “Wet enough?”

“Not yet.”

“Where are you now?”

“In a foxhole, outside Quang Tri City. It’s raining, and the artillery is firing.”

“How long do you need to be there?”

“Until I’m ordered to leave.”

She stood. “Well, when you get ready to make love, not war, I’ll be waiting.” She tousled my wet hair and went inside.

I sat in the rain for another few minutes, did my penance, and went inside.

Susan was in the shower, and I got undressed and joined her.

We made love in the shower, then went to bed.

Outside, the thunder clapped and the lightning lit up the dark room.

I slept fitfully, and the lightning and thunder provided the background for my bad dreams of battle, and I was aware of a cold sweat on my face, and a trembling in my body. I kept reaching for my rifle, but I couldn’t find it. I knew none of this was real, but my body reacted as if it were, and I dreamed that I’d been knocked unconscious by an explosion, and when I awoke, I was being flown to a hospital ship, the USS Sanctuary, in a very quiet helicopter.

I opened my eyes.

I sat up in bed with the feeling that something black and heavy had been lifted off my heart.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. It said 4:32, or, as we say in the army, Oh-dark-thirty. I could hear rain, but not thunder. I turned toward Susan, but she wasn’t in bed.

I got out of bed and checked the bathroom, but she wasn’t there. My thrashing around might have woken her, so I went into the sitting room of the suite and checked the couch, but she wasn’t there either.

I picked up the telephone and dialed her room. As the phone rang, I pulled it toward the terrace, but she wasn’t on the terrace, and she wasn’t answering the telephone.

I went back to the bedroom to get dressed so I could go to her room, or to the garden out back.

As I was dressing, I heard the door open in the sitting room. I went into the room as she turned on a lamp. She was dressed in jeans and a black sweater, and she was wearing a black quilted jacket, which I hadn’t seen before. She was also carrying her backpack and some other items in a large plastic bag, which she threw on the couch.

I said, “Going somewhere?”

“Going up country.”

“Are the elephants watered and fed?”

“They are.”

“And you left the gun in the garden?”

“I did.”

“Swear?”

“Swear.” She said, “We need to check out by five-thirty and meet someone.”

“Who and where?”

“Are you showered?”

“No.” I yawned. “Why should I be?”

“Go ahead and shower. Look, I bought you a backpack when I went shopping Sunday, and this leather jacket, and two rubber rain ponchos, plus some other stuff for the road. You need to pack light and ditch your luggage and dress clothes.”

I moved toward the couch and said, “How will anyone know I’m an American without my blue blazer?”

“That’s the point. Look.” She buttoned her quilted jacket, put on a pair of biker goggles, tied a Montagnard scarf around her neck and face, and put on a black fur-trimmed leather hat with earflaps. “Voilà.”

“What are you supposed to be?”

“A Montagnard.”

“What tribe?”

“I’ve seen pictures of them in newspapers and magazines and on TV. This is how they dress in the highlands and the hill country when they’re riding their motorcycles in the winter.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes. And as you know, they’re a little heavier and stockier than the Viets, so we should be able to pass as Montagnards from a distance.”

“What distance? Ten miles?”

She added, “Also, there are a number of Amerasians left over from your visit here, and many of them live in the hills… they’re sort of outcasts.”

I said, “There won’t be any Amerasians on the other side of the DMZ; I never got that far.”

She said, “Well, then north of the DMZ we’re Montagnards. Point is, you want to blend in. From a distance.”

I didn’t reply.

She took a dark brown leather jacket from the plastic bag and handed it to me. She said, “I bought you the biggest one I could find. Try it on.”

I tried it on, and I was able to get into it, but it was tight, and barely reached my waist.

Susan said, “You look sexy in leather.”

“Thank you. I assume we’re going by motorcycle.”

She looked at me and said, “I can’t think of another way. Can you?”

“Yes. Four-wheel drive and a driver. I’m going to check out the private tour companies today — Slicky Boy Tours, Hue office. I’ve got some days to get to where I’m going, so I’m not pressed.”

She shook her head and said, “You don’t want a third party involved. Colonel Mang will be all over this town interrogating private tour operators, if he hasn’t already.”

“Well… let’s go to another town to hire a car and driver. Or we can just ask any guy in a four-wheel drive. Any Nguyen will drive us to Dien Bien Phu for three hundred bucks.”

Susan replied, “That may be true, but my idea is better and doesn’t involve a third party, and gives us complete control of the agenda.”

She was right, up to a point. Transportation in this country was a matter of making the least bad choice. I asked her, “Where did you get a motorcycle?”

“Go shower. I’ll start packing for you.”

I turned, went back into the bedroom, peeled off my clothes, and went into the bathroom. I tried to remember when I’d given Susan control over this mission.

Through the bathroom door, I could hear her rummaging around in the bedroom. I called out, “Can I have one blazer for Hanoi?”

“It’s a small backpack.”

I shaved, showered, and took my malaria pill.

I came out of the bathroom wearing a towel, and Susan had my suitcase and overnight bag on the bed, plus a dark green backpack. My clothes were strewn on the sheets. I said, “I’ll do that.”

I spent the next ten minutes putting the bare necessities in the backpack; everything that I was going to ditch, I put into the suitcase and overnight bag.

She saw me packing my docksiders and Ho Chi Minh sandals and said, “Just wear your running shoes. You have too many pairs of underwear. Why don’t men wash underwear when they travel?”

Now I remembered why I wasn’t married. I said, “It’s easier to throw them out. Okay, how’s that?”

She rolled up a rain poncho, pushed it in my backpack, and strapped it shut. “Good. That’s it. You want to get dressed?”

I took off the towel and put on the outfit I’d kept aside — athletic socks, one pair of underwear, jeans, a polo shirt, and my black running shoes. I slipped my passport and visa into my wallet and put that into a little waterproof pouch that Susan had bought. I said, “Where’d you go for this stuff? L. L. Bean?”

“I went to the central market. They have everything.”

We gathered her quilted jacket and my leather jacket, plus the two hats, two pairs of leather gloves, and a bunch of Montagnard scarves, and stuffed them in the plastic bag so no one downstairs could see and remember them. I put my camera in a plastic laundry bag along with my exposed and unexposed film and shoved it in a side pouch of my backpack. This reminded me too much of 1968.

Susan said to me, “I’ve got my camera, so we can ditch one to save space.”

I knew I’d have to photograph Tran Van Vinh’s souvenirs if he wouldn’t sell them to me, and I’d definitely have to photograph Mr. Vinh himself, or his grave. Also, I needed to photograph his house and locale, so if he wasn’t dead, someone could come by later, find him, and kill him. I said to Susan, “I need a camera for this job, so we’ll take two to play it safe.”

“Okay.”

I asked her, “Is all your exposed film accounted for, including the roll Colonel Mang confiscated?”

She nodded. “I never had the film out of my sight.”

“Good.” I asked her, “You have that snow globe?”

She didn’t reply for a second, then said, “No. It’s missing again.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What difference does it make?” She forced a smile and said, “I can pick it up at the Metropole in Hanoi.”

I replied, “You can be sure that we’re not going to the Metropole when we get to Hanoi.”

She informed me, “It’s impossible to find a no-questions-asked place to stay in Hanoi. They report every guest to the police. It’s not South Vietnam.”

“We’ll deal with that when we get there. Ready?”

“Ready.”

We carried everything down to the lobby and walked to the front desk. We checked out, and I noticed on my bill a hundred-dollar charge for the Vidotour car and driver, which wouldn’t have been unreasonable, except that the driver was a secret policeman, who’d left us stranded in the next province. But I didn’t want to quibble over this with the clerk.

Susan asked the clerk, a young man named Mr. Tin, “Can you check to see if we have any messages?”

I said to him, “I’m also expecting a small parcel, a book, which someone was to deliver this morning.”

“Let me look.” He went to the key box and took out a few notes, then went into the back room.

Susan asked, “What book?”

“My Lonely Planet Guide.” I explained it to her and she didn’t comment.

Mr. Tin returned with a fax message, and a manila envelope that was not thick enough to be a book. He said to me, “Here is a fax for you, Mr. Brenner, and this envelope is for the lady.”

I asked, “And no book?”

“Sorry, sir.”

I moved away from the desk and looked at my watch. It was only 5:35 and still dark outside the lobby doors. I asked Susan, “What’s the latest we can leave here?”

“Now.”

I thought a moment. I had no way of knowing if Mr. Anh had been picked up by the police after our rendezvous. Therefore, I had no idea if Colonel Mang had already applied electric shocks to Mr. Anh and learned of my destination.

Susan said, “Sorry about the early departure, but I had no choice. Let’s be optimistic that the book would have been here in a few hours.”

“Yeah… okay. We’ll try to call here later.” I opened my fax envelope and read the short message: Dear Paul, Just a quick note to say have a good journey to Hanoi. Heard from friends in Saigon that all went well in Hue. C is looking forward to seeing you in Honolulu. God bless. Love, Kay. P.S. Please reply.

I handed the fax to Susan, who read it and handed it back without comment. I said, “It would seem that my contact here in Hue did contact Saigon, and said the rendezvous came off okay. But I still don’t know if this man got picked up later.”

I went to the desk, got a fax form, and wrote: Karl, replying to your fax— meeting in Hue was successful, as you know. Went to A Shau, Khe Sanh, and Quang Tri City Monday. Very moving. You need to come back, Colonel. Leaving now by private transportation to find T-V–V. Ms. W will accompany me. She has been an invaluable asset, translator, guide, and companion. Remember that, whatever happens. Ran into Colonel M in Quang Tri. He seems to suspect I’m here to start a Montagnard insurrection. Look up FULRO, if you don’t know about it. Mang to meet me in Hanoi, or sooner, so Metropole is out. I’ll try to contact Mr. E in USEmb in Hanoi on my arrival. I’m still visualizing success. My love to C. I hesitated, then wrote: For a variety of reasons, not the least of which is my possible extended stay here, do not have C make journey to Hawaii. I’ll see her in the States. See you wherever and whenever. I added: I gave this my best shot, Karl, but I feel somewhat used. Biet? I signed it Paul Brenner, Chief Warrant Officer, retired.

I gave Mr. Tin two dollars and said, “Let’s fax this now.”

“Sorry, sir, the fax machine—”

“It’s six o’clock in the morning, pal. The fax machine is not busy.” I came around the counter and helped Mr. Tin into the back room where the fax machine was. I also helped him dial and within a few seconds, the fax was sent. I borrowed matches from Mr. Tin, emptied a trash can on the floor, and burned the fax in the can. I looked at Mr. Tin, who didn’t seem happy with me in his space. I said to him, “Mr. Tin, I’m going to call you later. I want to know if that book arrived for me. Biet?”

He nodded.

I patted him hard on the shoulder, and he stumbled sideways. “Don’t disappear.”

I left the back room, came around the counter, and walked over to where Susan was sitting on a couch. She had her envelope open, and I could see photographs on the coffee table and on her lap.

I sat next to her and said, “Okay, I got the fax off, and I told Mr. Tin I’d call later about…” I looked at the photographs lying on the coffee table. I picked one up. It was a color photograph of a beach, taken from a high elevation on the land side of the beach. It took me a second to recognize the beach at Pyramide Island, and the photo had been taken from the pyramid rocks where the bird’s nest collectors had been climbing.

I picked up the photograph that had first caught my eye and saw it was a grainy image of Susan walking out of the water, obviously taken with a telephoto lens. It was a full frontal nude and there I was in the background, still in the water.

I looked at a few other photos — Susan and me embracing in the water, Susan talking to the Swedish couple, and me lying facedown in the sand while Susan sat on my butt. I put the pictures down and looked at her. She had a faraway look on her face, staring out at nothing.

I said, “I’m going to kill that son of a bitch.”

She didn’t reply or move.

“Susan? Look at me.”

She took a deep breath, then another, and said, “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“All right…” I gathered up the photos and put them in the envelope. I stood. “Ready to go?”

She nodded, but didn’t stand. She said softly, “That bastard.”

“He’s an asshole,” I agreed. “A sneaky, perverted, sadistic, sick little shit.”

She didn’t reply.

“Okay, let’s go.” I took her arm and lifted her up. She stood motionless for a second then said, “That bastard… why did he do that?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

She looked at me and said, “He could mail those pictures to Bill.”

Actually, the pictures were already on the way, and not just to Bill.

Susan said, “And my office…”

“Let’s go.” I took her arm, but she wasn’t moving.

She said, “And… my friends here… my family… the police have my home address in Lenox… my office in New York…”

“We’ll deal with that later.”

She looked at me and said, “They only have your home address… they’ve got a police file on me… every letter I’ve ever sent from here has the address recorded before it goes out…”

“But you used the company pouch to New York for mail. Correct?”

“I sent Christmas cards directly from the GPO…” She tried to smile. “I wanted a Vietnamese stamp on them… I knew I shouldn’t have done that…” She looked at me and asked, “Do you think he’d send those photos to people in the States?”

“Look, Susan, not to make light of it, but you were on a nude beach. Not a big deal. Okay? You weren’t photographed in a sexual act.”

She gave me an angry look. “Paul, I don’t want my family, friends, and co-workers to see pictures of me naked.”

“We’ll deal with it later. We need to get out of here. Out of Vietnam. Alive. Then you can worry about the pictures.”

She nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”

We gathered our luggage and headed for the door. I said to the doorman, “We need a taxi for Hue”Phu Bai Airport.”

He motioned out at the darkness and said, “Airplane not go. No light Hue”Phu Bai. Sun. Airplane go.” He smiled. “You go have breakfast.”

“I don’t want breakfast, sport. I want a taxi. Bay gio. Maintenant. Now.”

Susan said something to him, and he smiled, nodded, and went outside.

She said to me, “I told him you were a compulsive, anal-retentive, worrywart.” She smiled.

I smiled in return. She was looking better. I said, “What’s the word for anal-retentive?”

“Asshole.”

The doorman came back and helped us with our bags. A taxi pulled up the circular driveway, we got in, and off we went.

The rain had turned into a light drizzle, and the road glistened. The taxi headed toward Hung Vuong Street, toward Highway One and the airport. She looked out the rear window and said, “I don’t see anyone behind us.”

“Good. Where are we going?”

“I don’t know. I thought you knew.”

I put my arm around her and kissed her on the cheek. I said, “I love you.”

She smiled and replied, “So will about a hundred more men in a few days.”

“The mail here is slow.”

She took my hand and said, “Don’t you feel violated?”

“That’s what Mang wants us to feel. I’m not playing into that.”

“But you’re a guy. It’s not the same.”

I didn’t want to return to that subject, so I asked again, “Where are we going?”

“Close.”

We kept heading south on Hung Vuong Street, through the New City and toward Highway One. Susan said something to the driver, and he slowed down and made a U-turn on the nearly deserted street. As we headed back the way we’d come, I didn’t see any other vehicles doing the same thing.

We continued north, and Hung Vuong crossed the Perfume River at the Trang Tien Bridge, near the floating restaurant. I could see the Dong Ba market on the opposite bank, where Mr. Anh and I ate peanuts and talked.

The taxi stopped at a bus terminal that also said Dong Ba, and Susan and I got out, got our luggage, and I paid the driver.

I said, “Are we going by bus?”

“No. But the terminal is open now, and that’s what the driver will remember. We have to walk to Dong Ba market, which is also open at this hour.”

We put our backpacks on, and I wheeled my suitcase down the road. Susan carried my overnight bag. I said, “I’m going along with this because you had some training in these things at Langley, and you know this country. So of course you know what you’re doing.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

We were in the Dong Ba market within five minutes, and it was already open in the predawn darkness; people who were probably restauranteurs were haggling over the price of strange-looking fish and slabs of meat.

A man stood under a naked light bulb hanging from a wire and said in English, “You come see number one fruit.”

I ignored him, but Susan followed him around to the back of a big produce stall. I followed.

The man opened a rickety door in the back of the stall, and Susan entered. The man stood at the door and said to me, “Come. Quickly.”

I went through the door and he closed it. We were in a long narrow room, lit by a few light bulbs. The room smelled of fruit and damp earth.

Susan and the man spoke in Vietnamese, then Susan said to me, “Paul, you remember Mr. Uyen from dinner at the Pham house.”

Indeed I did. To show him I really remembered him, I said in Vietnamese, “Sat Cong.”

He smiled and nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Sat Cong. Sat Cong.”

I said to Susan, “The kiwis look good.”

She replied, “Mr. Uyen has offered to help us.”

I looked at Mr. Uyen and said, “Do you understand that we are under surveillance by the Ministry of Public Security, and they may have seen us talking to you and your family after mass, and that they may have followed us to your home? Do you understand all that?”

His English wasn’t so good, but he understood every last word. He nodded slowly and said to me, “I do not care if I die.”

“Well, Mr. Uyen, I care if I die.”

“I no care.”

I didn’t think he understood that I cared if I died. In any case, I said to him, “If police arrest me with motorcycle, they find you. License plate. Biet?”

He replied to Susan, who said to me, “The plate was taken from a motorcycle that was destroyed in an accident.”

I said to Susan, “Okay, but if they trace the motorcycle to him, tell him we’ll tell the police we stole it from him. Okay? And tell him we’ll drop it in a lake or something when we’re done with it.”

She told him, and he replied in Vietnamese to Susan, who said to me, “He says he hates the Communists, and he is willing to become one who suffers… a martyr… for his faith.”

I looked at Mr. Uyen and asked, “And your family?”

He replied, “All same.”

It’s hard arguing with people who are looking for martyrdom, but at least I tried.

It occurred to me, too, that Mr. Uyen was probably motivated not only by his faith, but also by his hatred for what happened in 1968 and since then. Mr. Anh, too, was not completely motivated by ideals, such as freedom and democracy; he was motivated by the same hate as Mr. Uyen— they’d both had family members murdered. You can forgive battlefield deaths, but you don’t forget cold-blooded murder.

I said, “Okay, as long as everybody here knows the consequences.”

In the dim light, I saw a large tarp draped over what must be the motorcycle.

Mr. Uyen saw me looking at it and walked to it, and tore off the tarp.

Sitting there on the earth floor of the narrow room was a huge black motorcycle of a make that I couldn’t identify.

I went over to it and put my hand on the big leather saddle. On the molded fiberglass fairing it said BMW and under that Paris-Dakar. I wasn’t going to either of those places, though Paris sounded good. I said to Mr. Uyen, “I’ve never seen this model.”

He said, “Good motorcycle. You go to mountain, to big… road…” He looked at Susan and tried it in Vietnamese.

She listened, then said to me, “It’s a BMW, Paris-Dakar model, probably named after the race of the same name—”

“Dakar is in West Africa. Does this thing float?”

“I don’t know, Paul. Listen. It’s got a 980cc engine, and it holds forty-five liters of fuel, and it has a two-liter reserve, and the range is about five hundred to five hundred and fifty kilometers. Mr. Uyen says it’s excellent for mud, cross-country, and the open road. That’s what it’s made for.”

I replied, “I guess so if you can go from Paris to West Africa with it.” I looked at the big tank, which rode high on the frame so it couldn’t be punctured from the ground. With a range of over five hundred kilometers, we might only have to refuel once during the 900 kilometer trip to Dien Bien Phu. I knelt and checked out the tires, which were big, about eighteen inches, and they had good tread.

Susan was talking to Mr. Uyen, then said to me, “He says it’s very fast and… I think he means maneuverable… and it has not bumps. I guess that means it’s an easy ride. My biker vocabulary is a little thin.”

I turned to Mr. Uyen and asked, “How much?”

He shook his head. “Free.”

I hadn’t heard that word in any context since I’d stepped off the plane at Tan Son Nhat, and I almost fainted. I said to Mr. Uyen, “We cannot give motorcycle back to you. One way. Bye-bye. Di di.”

He was nodding, but I didn’t know if I’d made myself clear.

Susan said, “I already told him that. He understands.”

“Really? Where and when did you speak to him?”

“During dinner I mentioned I had a problem, and I was invited to breakfast Sunday morning. You were, too, but you had appointments.”

I seemed to recall she’d said she slept until noon. I said, “So this is a done deal?”

“Only if you want it.”

I thought about that and said to Susan in cryptic English, “Aside from my concerns that other people might be on to us, and on to these people, it’s a thousand klicks to you-know-where. That’s a lot of saddle sores and mud. You up for that?”

She said something to Mr. Uyen, and he laughed hard.

“What’s so funny?”

She said to me, “I told Mr. Uyen you wanted to know if he has an elephant instead.”

I wasn’t amused.

Mr. Uyen was patting the saddle and said, “Good motorcycle. Buy from French man. He…” He spoke to Susan.

She said to me, “There was a cross-country race here last year. Hanoi to Hue.”

“Did the Frenchman win?”

Susan smiled and asked Mr. Uyen. He replied, and she said to me, “He came in second.”

“Let’s find the bike that came in first.”

She was getting impatient with me. “Paul. Yes or no?”

Well, the price was right, so I jumped on the bike and said, “Take me through this.”

Mr. Uyen gave Susan and me a quick and confusing lesson on how to drive a BMW Paris-Dakar motorcycle. I had the impression Mr. Uyen didn’t really know how to drive this machine, or he drove it like all Vietnamese drive everything — by trial and error, with a lot of horn honking.

I got off the bike. “Full tank?” I patted the tank.

Mr. Uyen nodded.

“Okay…” I looked at Susan. “Okay?”

She nodded.

We opened the plastic bag and put on our Montagnard biker costumes: leather jacket for me, quilted jacket for Susan, fur-trimmed leather hats, and Montagnard scarves. Mr. Uyen was amused.

We emptied our backpacks into the big saddlebags and stuffed the collapsed packs on top.

I said to Mr. Uyen, “You keep suitcase and overnight bag. Okay? Take care of my blue blazers.”

He nodded, then took a map from a zippered leather pouch mounted on the fiberglass fairing and gave it to me. He said, “Vietnam.”

“You got one of Paris?”

“Where you go?”

“To kill Commies.”

“Good. Where you go?”

“Dalat.”

“Okay. Good. Go safe.”

“Thank you.” I took out my wallet and handed him the last two hundred dollars I had, which was not a bad price for an expensive Beemer.

He shook his head.

Susan said, “He really wants to give us the motorcycle.”

“Okay.” I said to Mr. Uyen, “Thank you.”

He bowed, then looked around at his stack of fruit, chose a bunch of bananas and stuffed them into the Beemer’s saddlebags, then he took two liters of bottled water and lay them on top of the bananas. He motioned me to wheel the bike to the door, which I did.

Mr. Uyen went to the door, opened it a crack, and peeked out. He looked at us and nodded.

I zippered my leather jacket, wrapped the dark scarf around my neck, and put on the tinted goggles, then pulled on the leather gloves, which were tight.

Susan was doing the same, and we looked at each other. It was funny, but it wasn’t funny. She asked me, “Are you driving that thing, or flying it?”

“This was not my idea.”

Susan and Mr. Uyen exchanged Happy New Year greetings and bows. I shook hands with Mr. Uyen and said, “Thank you, again. You are a good man.”

He looked at me and in perfect English said, “God bless you and God bless Miss Susan and God bless your journey.”

I said, “And you be careful.”

He nodded and opened the door.

I wheeled the heavy bike out into the dark marketplace with Susan right behind me. I glanced back at Mr. Uyen, but the door was closed.

Susan said, “Keep wheeling the bike to the road over there.”

I wheeled the bike through the dimly lit marketplace. The drizzle had stopped, replaced by a cold river mist. A few people glanced at us, but my own mother wouldn’t have recognized me, so it didn’t matter.

Susan said, “Okay, I think the best way out of here is along the river road to the left. Ready?”

I jumped on the bike and started the engine. The roar sounded terrific and I could feel the power pulsating through the frame. I revved the engine and glanced at the gauges, which all seemed to be working. I flipped on the lights as Susan climbed on behind me. I kicked the bike into first gear, and off we went up a grassy slope to the river road.

I drove along the embankment with the Perfume River to our left and the towering walls of the Hue Citadel to our right. The bike had lots of power, even with two people on it. This could be fun. Then again, maybe not.

There wasn’t much traffic, so I was able to learn how to drive this big machine without killing us or anyone else.

We passed the two river bridges, then passed by the flag tower, then a few minutes later, the south wall of the Citadel ended, and Susan called out, “Turn right.”

I turned onto a road that paralleled the west wall of the Citadel and which ran north along the railroad track. The two-kilometer-long wall of the Citadel ended, and we crossed over the wide moat that surrounded the walls. The road got wider, and I realized I was on Highway One.

Susan tapped me, and I glanced over my shoulder at her. She had her arm out, and I looked to where she was pointing. Receding in the distance were the Citadel walls within which lay the imperial city of Hue, the capital of the emperors, the flower of Vietnamese cities, that had died in 1968, and was born again on the bones of its people.

I thought of Mr. Anh, and his father, the army captain, and of Mr. Uyen and the Pham family, and the sixteen-sided restaurant where Susan and I had dinner in the rain, and Tet Eve and the Perfume River, and the cathedral, and the holiday lights and the sky rockets. The Year of the Ox.

Susan wrapped her arms around me, put her mouth to my ear and said, “I always feel sad when I leave a place where I had a good experience.”

I nodded.

The sky was brightening in the east, and Highway One, the Street Without Joy, on which we’d traveled to Quang Tri and back, and hell and back, was filled with morning traffic.

I looked at the foothills in the distance as they caught the first light of the sun rising over the South China Sea. I remembered those hills and the cold rain of February 1968. Most importantly, I remembered the men, who were really boys, grown too old before they’d finished their boyhoods, and who had died too young, before any of their dreams could come true.

I always felt I had been living on borrowed time since 1968, and each day was a day that the others never had; so to the best of my ability, whenever I thought about it, I’d tried to live the days well and to appreciate the extra time.

I reached back and squeezed Susan’s leg.

She held me tighter and closer, and rested her head on my shoulder.

It had been a long, strange journey from Boston, Massachusetts; the destination was unknown, but the journey was a gift from God.