Farewell Uncle Ho 94
This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
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Farewell, Uncle Ho
by Dennis Milholland
questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu
Chapter 94 (Friday, July 21, 1967)
At exactly 0730 hours, the gangster limousine arrived in front of our house on Lê Loi. I watched from the dining-room window as Jules got out of his large, 15-horse, six-cylinder Citroën Traction Avant, model H, the French equivalent of a Rolls-Royce Silver Dawn, equipped with grey, silk, thick-pile upholstery, a wooden dashboard, and, of course, with its famous front-wheel drive. The French called it 'the queen of the road'.
But, according to Jules, as opposed to the Silver Dawn's rear suspension of half elliptical leaf springs, his Citroën had oléopneumatique suspension, the first of its kind, meaning that the oil-and-air cushion offered far superior comfort, he claimed, and it had no transmission hump, greatly improving legroom. I was really looking forward to this drive to Dalat, which was a totally new sensation, since neither Gerry nor I did well in cars for long periods.
Before we left, however, my guy and I had taken Jules to fill the car at the Shell station over at the corner of Hong Thap Tu and Pasteur, a block from the Presidential Palace and two and a half in the other direction from the French consulate, which was on the list of local filling stations, that would accept US Forces gasoline coupons, probably because of the new American embassy to be opened in September. Of course, the owner hated Americans and wanted to make a big deal about the fact that the space on the coupon book for a license-plate number was blank, but relented when I told him that it was either the coupons or nothing, and since the gas was already in the car, he took the coupons.
I imagined, but didn't know for sure, that if we'd purchased the coupons at the PX rather than from First Sergeant, we would have had to present a registration certificate and would have paid less. But since First Sergeant Magsaysay, along with everyone else in the Republic of Vietnam, obviously had some sort of scam going, he sold coupons without a license number. And to use them, all it took was some heavy-handed, ugly-American persuasiveness. Jules seemed to think that the station owner could use them more readily for trading on the black market without a license-plate number, anyway, but had only been slightly concerned that we could have been agents provocateurs, working with the police.
We returned home for breakfast of Linh's fresh baguette sandwiches filled with the Vietnamese version of Parma ham. He had also made layered coffee, cà phê sữa nóng, as he called it, for Gerry and Jules, which was white at the bottom of the glass and black at the top. For some reason, Gerry really got off on spooning the black coffee first and drinking the sweet condensed milk by itself. Jules found this intriguing, so he was trying it. And since Linh always spoiled Gerry by adding more condensed milk than usual, he was spoiling Jules with the same. I kept to my 'whore's breakfast', as Gerry called black coffee and a cigarette.
So, when Wade and Yvette arrived, everyone, except for me, was using soup spoons to drink their morning coffee. Yvette shook her head and shrugged. Wade thought he might like to try it, as he stood his two leather rifle cases in the corner by the door.
"Do you plan on hunting?" I wondered, forgetting that we officially lived in Military Region 3 and we were in the middle of a war.
"You REMFs really have it good." He grinned, taking his coffee to the living room. "You can so easily forget what the rest of the troops are here for."
I followed him, chewing on a bite off the first half of my sandwich. "REMFs?"
He sputtered. "Rear Echelon Mother Fuckers." He recognized my annoyance. "It's a joke, Ben."
"So, why do you need two weapons?" I pressed him, seeing Jules tap his watch from the entry and signaling that we would leave in ten minutes.
"Even if we are hooking up with an armed escort near the intersection of QL-1 and QL-20 in Dầu Giây, it's always good to be prepared." He stood up and gave Linh his coffee glass and went to get his rifles. This was the very moment, when I realized that I'd been in denial about being a participant in this war.
***
Wade gave me one of the rifles, which wasn't a hunting rifle but an AK-47. His comment was: "it's much less prone to jam than an M-16."
"Okay," I said, while starting to get a boner. "I'll take your word for it." Wade seemed surprised, when I told him that I'd never so much as fired an M-16, not to mention an AK-47.
"And what did you train on?" He waited on the landing in the soft, yellow light, coming through the tall, louvered window from the courtyard, as I closed our apartment door.
"Would you believe, an M-14?" I laughed and turned the key.
"And Gerry?" He drew his eyebrows together in a worried frown.
"We went through training together." I smirked and waved briefly as I went out the door to the street, and Wade went through the back to the courtyard.
Jules was motioning with his hand for me to get in quickly. "Hide that, fast. You're not allowed to have guns in Saigon, if you're not in uniform."
"Cool, a war without weapons." I chuckled, as Jules quickly lifted the hinged back of the backseat, giving him access to the trunk from the interior of the car and put it under the suitcases. Linh had gotten into the passenger side of the front, which left me sitting in the back with Gerry. And, needless to say, that was more than fine with me. We could cuddle.
***
When Jules started the engine, Gerry gave me an inquisitive look. The back end of the car rose a little, and when he pulled away from the curb, cold air started circulating from under the dash. I'd heard of air-conditioning in cars, but had never experienced it. Neither New York nor Parisian taxis had such luxuries. Gerry asked Jules about it. But I found it odd, that it hadn't been on when we'd gone for gas.
Jules explained the science behind the oléopneumatique suspension and then laughed. "The air-conditioning is the invention of professor Linh."
Gerry glared at Linh, who gave a dismissive puff of air from his cheeks, shrugged and answered: "It is advanced physics." Gerry looked at me, I provided the translation.
My guy was duly impressed; I smelled a joke. "Do you use a compressor or an evaporator?"
Linh understood him, probably due to the two major cognates. "Évaporateur." He pointed to the wooden crate, containing about ten frozen, ice-pack accumulators and about as many bottles of Bireley's orange drink, a cylindrical, aluminum canteen of water, all on a thick, absorbent cleaning cloth, next to his feet under the air-intake vent, located beneath the dashboard. Gerry had to lean over the seat to see it, but was still impressed. Another advantage of not having a hot transmission hump, taking up space.
***
Once we got over the Newport Bridge and met up with traffic, coming from the military harbor, and onto the Bien-Hòa Highway, also known as QL-1, Jules closed the air-intake vent, due to our being sandwiched in between two-lanes in each direction, full of olive-drab Army vehicles. This diesel soup was far worse than anything I'd ever smelled stateside. And much worse than anything I'd ever experienced in the industrial suburbs of Paris.
Jules explained, and I was paying close attention, how the QL-1 passed to the east of Bien Hòa Air Base and just west of Long-Binh Post, home of the famous Long-Binh Jail, or LBJ, where the majority of polluters left us. Any legal clerk, stationed in and around Saigon, dealing in courts martial, had to know how to get here and back. I now knew. Although I was slated to deal with war crimes, I would have to be on the duty-driver roster, just because I had a driver's license.
Gerry, on the other hand did not have a license and, consequently, would not have to pull driver duty. As the words of Alvin Moffett rang in my ears: "They don't haffta know everything, now do they?", I realized with regret that I should have kept my mouth shut.
Anyway, as most of the smog-generating trucks were headed to somewhere around the air base, stockade or one of the many black-market turnover points, most of the rest turned south toward Vung Tau, Jules reopened the air vent. We had Linh's air conditioning operational, again.
***
Jules sped up on the relatively empty, flat, and straight stretch of QL-1 after Hung Long, and it didn't seem as if the car were moving, at all. Oddly, Wade and Yvette were nowhere to be seen.
Just after the large white-on-blue road sign, obviously left over from French Indochina, displaying one white arrow straight ahead, which said, Hanoï, 1691 km, and another, signaling a left-hand turn to travel to Dalat, 230 km, Jules signaled to turn; the indicator ticked like my Wesclox alarm clock.
After about 300 meters, Jules pulled off the road onto the wide shoulder, where a large jeep with a mounted machine gun waited. The two men, one behind the wheel, the other manning the machine gun, reminded me of my two Moroccans, only they were wearing well-worn French fatigues without insignias.
We all got out of the car, each with a bottle of Bireley's orange drink. Jules offered a couple to the guys in the Jeep. When they thanked Jules in French, I went over for a chat.
Come to find out, they were Algerian and had taken a discharge from the army rather than return home and be labeled as Harkis, Algerian collaborators with the French, or go to France and be treated like shit. "And why did you stay in Vietnam?" I had to know.
The guy behind the wheel, who seemed to be the less macho, grinned, and nodded toward the machine-gunner, who was apparently trying to ignore us. "We're mercenaries. And there's a war on."
"Besides," The more macho machine-gunner looked me in the eyes, winked, smirked, placing his right booted ankle onto his left knee. "I swore never to abandon my buddy in the jungle." He held up the bottle of orange drink in a mock, festive toast to mutual recognition and drank the bottle empty in one draft.
***
The minute Yvette and Wade arrived, the jeep started its engine. Wade got out and came to Jules's window, waving at the guys in the jeep. Up to that very moment, I hadn't realized that their common language was Cantonese. Then he aimed his voice at Gerry and me in English. "You have ten standard Kalashnikov cartridges, a total of 300 rounds, just in case we get into a fire fight."
Gerry and I waved our thanks, and Wade returned to his car. He tooted the horn and we left. Jules and Linh opened their windows to provide air, since the accumulators had thawed for the most part and he had closed the air vent, again. We were seeing the first hills. And I got comfortable with the good amount of legroom. Gerry fell asleep on my chest and I with my head on the back of the seat.
***
Jules had tooted his horn, causing me to startle awake. He and Linh were waving at our two Algerian armed escorts, as they drove off to the left to line up with three vehicles, waiting to return back to the end or start of QL-20, depending on which way you were travelling. We pulled off to the right. Jules explained how he had given them a box of cigars for accompanying us.
Wade and Yvette pulled up alongside. Yvette cranked down her window. "Want to stretch our legs and go look at the falls?" Jules nodded and pulled further off of the road to the extreme right and parked.
Before we started out, Jules suggested we get our assault rifle out of the trunk. He also suggested that we put in a full clip. I watched closely, as Gerry worked to insert the banana-shaped clip. When I took the rifle, my guy gave me a puzzled look. "I feel like it's my duty to protect you and our family." Gerry wiped his eyes quickly and gave me a short kiss on the neck. Linh looked as if he would swoon. Although smiling, Jules motioned for us over to where he, Wade and Yvette were.
Gerry offered a round of cigarettes, which would settle the group's collective nerves, which I thought was particularly important, since Wade and I were slightly on edge and each with an AK-47, slung over our respective shoulder, muzzle pointed down and loaded with a 30-round magazine. We walked along a narrow, steep path with Jules in the lead. While we'd been driving along the QL-20, we had been travelling through forests and mountains, which could have been in upstate New York or Appalachia, but now, with this lush exotic vegetation, we were definitely in a jungle. The sounds and smells were jungle. The air sultry, the atmosphere tense, the bird sounds exotic.
Prenn falls, themselves, were like a huge, red-brown curtain, concealing the entrance to a cave. Jules told us that we could actually walk along a wooden walkway behind the falls, but Wade was against the idea, since it would be an ideal place for an ambush.
I had to shiver at the thought. We weren't sightseeing in the mountains of Appalachia. And we weren't looking a quaint waterfall in the Jura mountains, somewhere near the French-Swiss border. We were in Lâm Đồng Province, in the Central Highlands of Vietnam, probably not all that far from where Specialist 5th Class Sean McGrady had been shot down, wounded, and where he'd had to watch the man he loved bleed to death without being able to help.
We drove for about forty minutes along a two-lane road, named for the Prenn Pass. It was, in part, serpentine, and definitely still climbing. My mind kept playing tricks. We could have been winding our way through what could easily have been a European or New England mountain forest. But the constant reminder that we weren't in a peaceful valley in Switzerland, was the assault rifle on my knees and the fact that the earth was brick-red, the color of dried blood when seen in forest shadows.
We crested the mountain, the road, steeply, windingly descending down into Dalat, which was now spectacularly partially hidden in light whips of cloud along with the forested mountains, on the other side of the valley.
Jules pulled off the highway to the left and up a steep, winding, drive, ending at a heavy, wrought-iron gate, flanked by huge, rough-stone walls. When he got out, it was obvious that we were very high up, since the late afternoon air almost had a chill to it.
Gerry grabbed my hand and squeezed. Of course, the views high above Dalat were breathtaking, but what drew moisture to my eyes was Gerry's whispering: "How could I ever stop loving you, mein Schatz?"