The Golden Mists of Hue - Part I

I’ve never walked with three legs before, but Hoan almost convinced me otherwise. Nguyen Cong Hoan and I squatted outside the main office of Nhan Dan newspaper in Hanoi. A chilly November rain fell heavily in the streets, soaking our thin shirts as we shared a cigarette and talked.

“I have strange vision Thanh,” he said, waving his arm toward heaven, invoking some ancient spirit, “When I look at a person, I ask myself, why does he walk with two legs?”

“We all walk on two legs.”

Hoan took a puff of the unfiltered cigarette and handed it over with a snort, “Thanh, three legs would be more normal. Nowadays they say everybody has to have two legs, but that’s not how I see it.”

“I don’t understand,” I let the cigarette dangle between my fingers, smoke rising into my face. “Everybody has two legs, three legs would be monstrous.”

“When you’ve written for old man Tung as long as I have, you’ll understand.” Hoan pointed to the main office with his head.

Hoan’s comment stung, but I said nothing. My three months of work on the paper prevented any protest. After all, Hoan started writing shortly after the paper’s creation in 1951. How could I expect to merit the same respect he did?

“Looks like you’re wanted Thanh.”

Standing just outside the entrance to the offices, a dark skinned Montagnard beckoned for me. I handed the cigarette back to Hoan and hurried across the street. He ushered me upstairs and into Tung’s office.

I bowed respectfully and stood in front of Tung’s desk, waiting for him to speak. The rain drizzled through Tung’s bomb shattered window and a breeze made me shiver. From my position of fealty I barely saw his head move, his eyes examining me. When the door closed behind me he stood up, immediately taking charge of the interview. “Thanh, I’ve just received word of an upcoming offensive in the South. You are the youngest reporter we still have here in Hanoi.”

I nodded and risked a sideways glance at him. He was older than me, maybe by twenty years. The sides of his eyes showed wrinkles and his face was fine, hidden from the noonday sun by the office roof. He stepped around the desk and moved close, standing in front of me, and breathing in my face. He smelled like fish and garlic, I closed my eyes, trying to block the stench.

“You will go to Hué. Your country needs you there. The offensive will start sometime around Tet. I cannot tell you all the details. You know that area well, I expect good work, as good as, if not better, than what you’ve already given me.”

“Yes sir,” I nodded, more enthusiastically than I felt. “I won’t disappoint you.”

“You will travel the Ho Chi Minh Trail with a group of sappers leaving in two weeks. Bac will give you all the information.” Tung flashed his trademark toothy grin and rubbed my arm. “You’ll do well.”

“Thank you.”

He didn’t say anything else, just returned to his seat and started editing a story. I bowed again and backed out of the room. I wasn’t sure if I felt ecstatic or scared or both. To be frank, my earlier conversation with Hoan troubled me, I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to walk with two legs or three anymore, and going into the field to report a major offensive didn’t promise to clarify my confusion.

***

Whether I walked with two or three legs I did it a lot over the next two months. We marched endlessly for hours on end, strengthening our muscles for the long trek south to Hué. When we didn’t march, we squatted in crowded huts and listened to the indoctrination of the people’s party. I barely had time to think about Hoan’s comments except during the meetings. While I squatted between thirty other men my mind flew to Nghe An Province, and Vinh city, the memories of my youth. As the discussion leaders talked about glorious dreams of independence and sacrifices of generations past, I thought of my own sacrifices, of my father’s death, and a dream too personal to share with even my closest friends in Hanoi.

Two years ago I traveled back to Vinh on assignment to write Brave Men of Nghe An, a novel of the heroic people there who helped soldiers on the Ho Chi Minh Trail. While I meandered the province searching for information and stories I discovered my father’s death. He died nearly a decade before, but the information was kept from me, hidden by the cadres and by my caretaker, Huynh Thong Nhat. Seeking his burial mound I found it outside the city, next to my mother’s. I prostrated myself for hours mourning my loss, angry at Nhat and the men who stole my rights of worship from me.

As I drifted into sleep, my mother appeared, draped in a beautiful white ao dai. She took my hand and spoke to me, telling me of my father’s happiness and contentment, telling me that they both smiled and desired only my continued obedience to faith, ancestors, and Buddha. She said to pay particular attention to my new religion, for its teachings would save me. I agreed and she disappeared, leaving me cold and sore on my father’s grave.

Each day of training that passed evoked stronger memories. My discussion with Hoan and my dead mother’s words dominated my thoughts. How could I walk with two legs if I had three? I didn’t know, and the constant marching through mud with heavy backpacks did not relieve my growing puzzlement.

***

We finally left in the second week of February. I traveled with a group of two-dozen warriors, trained and ready to fight the dreaded Americans. They traveled light, carrying Russian munitions and a small bag filled with rice balls and crackers. I carried food, but also three notebooks of blank paper, and a supply of pencils. I wanted to bring a camera, but Bac, Tung’s secretary, said the cost wasn’t justified.

A week into our journey I thanked him. We walked through the thick foliage of Laos; palms and tropical underbrush grabbed at us in spots. Teak, palm, and rubber trees hovered above, only sometimes offering shade from the tropical sun. The constant up and down of the mountainous region burned my legs. One day we ran across a small cluster of cots hanging from fat branches overhead. We stopped briefly to find them filled with sick comrades, men stricken with fever on their trip south, and left to die. One of the men already lived with his ancestors. Maggots crawled over his flesh and ate his eyes. A green fungus grew on his face and hands. I gagged and ran away, throwing my lunch of rice onto an ant mound.

We continued to march for another week and a half before leaving the Trail and heading east toward Hué. By the twenty-sixth of January we stopped several miles from the city in a stand of oak trees. I asked the group leader, Duc, what was going to happen. He told me to wait and then disappeared.

When he came back, his face seemed haggard, hollow. I sat in with the other men, listening as he told us the plan. We would unite with several thousand troops, attack tactical positions in the imperial city, and take Hué. It was a large task, but one we would accomplish. The cause was just and would frustrate the Americans and their quislings.

I smiled as I heard him say that. I had said similar words years before not far from where we squatted. It would indeed be a glorious victory.

The next day on the twenty-ninth we attacked.

We moved at night, sneaking through the young rice shoots, hiding among herds of water buffalo. Through the trees I saw the lights of Hué. Fireworks exploded and cracked as they celebrated Tet, New Years. The moon withheld its light, Tet corresponding with the new moon. We crept through the darkness, slowed by the swampy rice paddies, and Duc led us past several huts. I heard the sound of rushing water and Duc pointed for us to follow the hard river path into the center of Hué. We ran now, rushing past insignificant territory into the heart of the city. I could see the crenellated roofs of the Imperial Citadel rising to points against the sky.

The shooting started and I heard war erupt throughout Hué, each shot ringing louder than the loudest firework. We were assigned to immobilize a police station just north of the river. As we approached our target I slipped into a doorway and pulled out a notebook and pencil. I described the night: the thick darkness smothering the world, the brave soldiers throwing themselves into battle and sacrificing everything for their country’s freedom, and I wrote about the bullets flying through the air.

I didn't mention the bullet that zinged past my ear and imbedded in the wood frame beside me, nor the wet warmth that spread between my legs as I crouched into a ball and let the fight continue, unreported until the dawn.

Copyright 2005