>> A new way of literary creation in Vietnam

DTiNews: There have been countless words written about the Vietnam War. Writers from both sides have told and retold their stories, made up stories, analyzed their experiences. Some have lied and some have told the truth.

Yet it seems the truth about the conflict still remains hidden. This short work, which is one part of a novel by the author Vinh Quyen chronicles the efforts of one man to find the secret behind the war; a war whose core remains elusive. One that seems to be made up of not one answer, but many, individual ones. Here is one man\'s attempt to find his.

Vinh Quyen (second from right) introducing his novel Debris of Debris in America

*******************

Kha translated and published the Vietnamese edition of an American novel at the beginning of 1990.

Kha had met the author of this book for the first time in the autumn of the previous year, when he’d made a trip to Vietnam.

He easily recognized the American writer among the other Western passengers in the arrival hall of Danang Airport because he had often glanced at the portrait on the back cover of the novel. At the same time, the American writer recognized his full name, ‘Thomas Keller’, written on a piece of cardboard held up high by a thin and tall Vietnamese man. The man was, of course, Kha, the translator of his novel. They waved hello to each other and wormed their way through the crowd to shake hands; their approach was easy. Thomas thanked Kha for popularizing his novel in Vietnam, the place that had inspired his work. Kha said that he was sorry for leaving out some details of the novel in the Vietnamese version.

Thomas immediately waved the words away with a gesture of the hand, saying, sincerely, that he was aware of the situation Kha had to deal with. Then he suddenly interrupted himself and extended his camera to snap some image he thought worth keeping from his journey.

There was a Vietnamese man who was standing among a circle of his close relatives and friends, flowers and tears. Thomas conjectured that he must be an overseas Vietnamese returning home from the U.S. after years of being away from his native land. Thomas was a little bit surprised when the man opened his big suitcases and started handing out gifts to some of his relatives right there in the airport. It was the early 1990’s, and Thomas - along with the Vietnamese people who had moved overseas - was unaware that many of these relatives showing such profuse gratitude for ‘American gifts’, even things as small as a tube of toothpaste, would have accumulated more wealth than him in ten years time.

The new wealth that came a decade later was perhaps a result of Vietnam’s new economic policy. Or maybe it was corruption. But at that time no one knew what would happen in this country, running after its first taste of prosperity.

Before leaving the airport with Kha, Thomas looked back through the glass at the runways and the airplanes parked on the tarmac. He really wanted to see the corrugated domes that had housed American fighters before 1973. They were part of the image he saw upon his first landing, from a military aircraft, the Dakota, which had taken off from an aircraft carrier.

As a reporter who worked for an American military television channel, Thomas had been in Vietnam for two years. But this time he came back, not as a journalist, but as a writer. His best-selling novel had been published three years before, and it contained some paragraphs relating to Danang Airport. However, now Thomas could hardly recognize the place he remembered, apart from those old corrugated domes.

On the way to parking lot, Kha confirmed Thomas’ trip schedule, “In your letter you said you want to go straight to Hue from here, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. I stayed in Hue for almost a year.”

“Are you return to there to collect material for your new novel?”

“Maybe, but for now I’m only looking for somebody.”

“You’re looking for person?”

“Yes, a Vietnamese woman.”

Kha tried not to ask more, but the American intentionally left his story vague. Later, though, during their first dinner in Hue, along the banks of the Huong River, Thomas told Kha about the story that often haunted his dreams. He began with a thoughtful voice, “I’m not sure if it’s a good dream or a nightmare.”

*

There were not many times that I’d got so much footage of fierce hand-to-hand combat. It was all under this sort of red light of a jungle sunset. And I’d never heard the savage screams of so many soldiers, American and Vietnamese soldiers, at the same time. But I never finished taping. I felt a bayonet go straight through my right shoulder. The camera slipped from my hands, and I saw it being smashed by the boots of American soldiers and the rubber sandals of the ‘Viet Cong’. The next thing I knew, it had disappeared into a horrible mix of mud and hot blood. That was the last thing I remembered.

I woke up to a Northern Vietnamese guard. I closed my eyes and pretended to still be unconscious. It took a while for me to realize that I’d been captured by the ‘Viet Cong’. My shoulder hurt like hell, and I was trying my best to swallow my groans. Once I heard the groans and swearing of wounded American soldiers around me I knew I didn’t have to play dead anymore. I knew we were together in a POW camp.

I could hear Vietnamese voices coming through a bamboo wall. Then one female voice, speaking in Vietnamese and in English. I thought the voice sounded familiar.

Then I heard an American soldier reply to her. Even though I couldn’t tell exactly what they were saying, I understood that it was an interrogation.

The next day it was my turn. A guard led me into the next room. There was one girl and two men. I immediately recognized the girl. It was Hien, but she was wearing the uniform of the NVA. I could see that she was pretending not to be surprised to see me. I didn’t dare to say her name or do anything that would show that I knew her.

Actually, at that moment, I was thinking more about journalism more than anything else. I was at the heart of the secret of the war. I knew her because I’d worked with her when she was an interpreter for an American regiment. She helped me to collect information from ‘Viet Cong’ prisoners some months before.

After some high-ranking cadre entered the room the interrogation began. I didn’t understand Vietnamese, but I could tell that Hien was talking with her superiors about me.

“Independent or military reporter?”, the commander suddenly asked in English.

Hien’s look to me was like an instruction to reply, “independent”.

But I said, “Military.”

A look of disappointment came like a breeze across her face, but she regained her composure almost immediately, and gave a gentle nod. I wrote about this in my book: I understand that she wanted me to be treated as an independent reporter. But it was impossible. I didn’t have the heart to be treated differently than the other American prisoners of war. I refused that favor from Hien.

It was wonderful to see that she understood and sympathized with that choice. Hien coolly carried out her duties, as if nothing had happened. So many questions, they came like waves. Hien eventually suggested a break in the interrogation because I had a high fever. I nodded my head and said, “Thanks.”

Hien and another cadre came to my cell in the middle of the night. While the the other cadre was talking with the guard, she quietly put a rubber sandal at the foot of my bed. She’d noticed in the morning that my feet were swollen and bloody. All the other prisoners had their boots taken away to limit their chances of escape.

I still had a fever and had trouble understanding what was going on around me. I waited for her to say something, or maybe even just a look. But there was nothing.

After she disappeared, for a long time, in the dark, I asked myself why she had taken such a risk. This question I couldn’t answer.

When I finally fell asleep, I remember dreaming that I was on a military helicopter that was falling towards the deep blue, tropical jungle, leaving a zigzag of black smoke in the sky that kept getting longer and longer. I was terrified and out of breath, but it seemed like the helicopter would never hit the ground.

The nightmare made me wake up with a scream. When I opened my eyes, I felt safer. I realized I was still lying on my bed of sticks. Propping my left arm on the bed, I tried to sit up. I put my back to the bamboo wall, and then slowly looked around. The rays of moonlight fell through the thatched roof, making egg-shaped spots on the ground, and on me.

I studied these little eggs of light as if they were something novel. For some reason they reminded me of a Chinese chess board, and they actually made me realize something more about the war.

*

Hien and I were in a Jeep, heading into a small village, in an area where the fighting had just ended the night before. A dozen tanks were sitting, camouflaged, parked haphazardly on both sides of the road. I told Hien that I wanted to film the neighborhoods where people lived.

As soon as we got out of the Jeep we witnessed an unbelievable scene. I picked up my camera to record it. People were peacefully living their daily lives besides burnt down houses and bodies that hadn’t been buried. I saw two old men playing Chinese chess under the canopy of an old banyan tree, and people gathered around to watch them.

“Is it like Western chess?” I asked.

“No, it’s not.”

“I want have a look.”

But as we approached, and the people saw that I was American, their demeanor cooled. My thoughts became cold too, as I looked fixedly at the men playing chess, a fierce glint in my eye. My right hand dropped to the pistol hanging on my hip, but Hien’s soft hand told me to ease back.

“Be calm, please,” she whispered. “What’s the matter with you?”

“The chessboard! You see?” As I spoke with my teeth were clenched with anger.

“Chessboard? I don’t know!”

“It’s made with black marble!”

“Yes, black marble. It’s so nice. But why could it make you crazy?”

“Smith!”

“Who’s Smith?”

“My friend, a pilot, who was shot down in near jungle almost one year ago. We never got his body. So we had a memorial engraving made for him and dropped it at the same coordinates. This chessboard is made of the same stuff.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, but…”

I interrupted Hien and pointed at the two men playing chess. I said “V.C.!”

“No, I don’t think so.” Hien shook her head. “They’re not V.C.”

The group, including the two chess players, noticed this unusual conversation even though they couldn’t understand English. But they did recognize the word “V.C.”. They looked at one another with fear in their eyes. One of them spoke up, “No V.C., No Viet Cong!”

“Wait a moment, please,” Hien said to me. “I want to talk with them to clear this matter.”

“Okay.” I nodded.

Hien turned to the two men playing chess and asked in Vietnamese, “Whose chessboard is this?”

“It’s mine,” one of them answered, then, in a halting voice, “What’s the matter?”

Instead of answering the question, Hien asked, “Can I see it, please?”

“Absolutely,” the man said, handing over the board to her.

She overturned it. On the backside, everyone could see the picture of the Holy Cross and a sentence in English carved on it.

She looked up and explained, “This is a memorial engraving for an American soldier who died last year.”

The crowd burst out with regret and astonishment, “Oh my god!”

I could see their emotion.

It was only afterwards that I understood, through Hien, exactly what had happend and what was said. The man had just picked it up at random three months ago on his way to the jungle to cut wood. There is no way he could have known what it was. And he couldn’t have known it’s significance, because it was completely different from a Vietnamese memorial stele. He just thought that it might make a good chessboard. Now he was happy to give it back to its proper owner. Nothing else.

On the way back to the base I gripped the marble in my arms, silent, as if I were afraid it would be lost again. Then I turned to Hien and said, “Thank you. I nearly made a terrible mistake.”

“Just a misunderstanding.”

“We come from a different culture, and it gets us into a lot of problems here.”

*

My recollections were interrupted by the deafening sound of the helicopters that came suddenly, and seemed to be flying at the level of the tree tops. The dark jungle seemed to burst and bounce with a tremendous rain of fire. Minutes later, the ground matched the fury from the sky, with red webs of gunfire.

I, along with several other Americans, took this opportunity to try to escape from the prison; and from the rockets. It seemed as if the helicopters didn’t discriminate between friend and foe. The whole area was just a target to be exterminated. I saw two members of our group blasted into the air, falling back, disappearing into the debris.

Still, the rest of us went on.

“Stop!”

It was a harsh voice in English, and it stopped our group. The barrel of an AK-47 emerged from behind a tree, aimed straight at us. Then a female shape slowly appeared from the smoke and firelight of the rockets.

Hien and I were face to face again.

She shouted, “If anyone move, I’ll fire!”

One of our group, who’d seemed to have gone almost insane with the impossibility of his situation, rushed at her. A shot rang out.The man collapsed at her feet and she staggered. Everybody made a run for it, except me. I found myself standing in front of Hien’s AK47, the barrel was still smoking. Exactly at that time I could hear the Vietnamese getting nearer.

Hien and I looked at each other.

Time seemed to stop.

And then the girl murmured, “Run away!”

I ran through the dark jungle with Hien’s rubber sandals.

*

“To me, what happened to you is really more like a sweet dream than a nightmare,” Kha said, when Thomas finished his story.

For the next two days, Kha helped Thomas interview several high-ranking military officials who had commanded almost all the battles in Thua Thien Hue Province. But nobody had any recollection of a woman named Hien.

“Maybe she worked for some secret group who were all killed,” one of them said. “That kind of thing was not unheard of in war.”

“I think ‘Hien’ must have just been an alias, used when she was around the enemy, and now she’s living somewhere else, under her real name,” said another one. These words sowed the seeds of hope for the American veteran.