Deros Vietnam (21 page)

On my way home in the afternoon heat, I watch our elderly neighbor Thanh fishing with a long bamboo pole. He smiles at me and offers his biggest catch.

“Cam on, ong gin,”
I thank him. My family will be happy to have fresh fish.

I take the shortcut along the highway. My mother has warned me about taking this way home, but it is late. She will not be angry with me when she sees the fish.

As I make my way among the puddles down to the highway, I hear the roar of moving vehicles. A herd of tanks, stampeding down the road, throws out mud and noise. At the rear of the herd is a Jeep with three American soldiers. I shudder and try to run back the way I've come, but they have seen me.

One of the soldiers salutes me and laughs. The second holds up his gun and pretends to shoot—“Bang! Bang! You dead gook.” I jump to avoid his make-believe bullets. The third soldier, the one who is driving, stops the Jeep, gets out and walks over to where I am holding my hands against my ears. He places his hand on my shoulder—light and soft like a butterfly—and speaks softly in Vietnamese. I have never heard an American speak Vietnamese before and this one speaks very well.

“Bi
ệ
t s
á»±
s
ợ
,
don't be afraid,” he tells me. “GI numbah 10. You numbah one. I like Vietnamese.”

His hands reassure me, but the two other soldiers in the Jeep shout at him, calling him
giao-sur
or professor and calling me “gook.”

“Giao-sur,”
I address the nice American. The professor responds, and the two men burst out laughing and slap one another on the back.

The professor hands me a small candy bar in a white wrapper with big English letters.

“You Baby Ruth,” the professor says to me, smiling and pointing to the letters. He walks back to the Jeep and waves goodbye. The two other soldiers keep laughing.

I arrive home very late, and my mother scolds me while my grandmother slaps me on the wrists. Not even the fish makes them happy. They send me to bed without any dinner. I lie awake listening to my mother and grandmother talking about the American soldiers they saw near our village. I clutch my Baby Ruth bar and think about the professor and then I am dreaming of Trieu Au, the two of us slaying one large whale after another.

* * *

The next morning, I awake early and leave for the rice fields in the dark. Before the sun is halfway across the sky, I hear the noise of tanks and trucks and see the dust moving along the highway. I return to my cutting, but there are two American soldiers walking through the puddles toward me. I stand still, holding my sickle beneath my shirt. As they move closer, I recognize the professor.

“Chao co,”
the professor greets me. I lower my head and return his hello.

The professor kneels in front of me and explains that he and his comrades are establishing a base camp down the road and will be coming to visit our village very soon. He says that he will bring presents to me and my family. They will teach us to speak English and learn more about his people and his country.

The man next to him, a large American with a small head and starched olive green pants that sparkle in the sun, says nothing. He looks around, shifting his weight back and forth from one leg to another, as he makes loud, squishing sounds in the mud.

That night I tell my mother about the nice professor who will soon be our neighbor. She holds her hands to her mouth, trembling. She makes me repeat my story to several villagers. My grandmother reminds them that it was like this years ago when the French were here. Now they are gone. Grandmother says the Americans will soon give up and our lives will be back to normal.

* * *

Two days later, the professor and his comrades arrive at our village. They drive up in a topless Jeep with dark green and black swirls on the sides that remind me of Trieu Au's whales. The professor speaks with the people and he is especially kind to my grandmother. She pinches me after the Americans leave and says:
“Nguoi My nay lam tot.”
American is very good.

That evening, the people listen to the professor explain why he is here. The Americans will help us grow more rice, prevent sickness, and protect ourselves against the Viet Cong. His Vietnamese is very good.

Later, my grandmother tells the villagers to believe what the professor says for now.

“
Giao-sur
reminds me of the ancient poet Nguyen Trai,” my grandmother observes, “‘better to conquer hearts than citadels.'”

* * *

The professor and his men return to our village every day, bringing food in cans, needles with strong poison fighters, cigarettes, weapons, and Baby Ruth candy. Before long, the professor is teaching us to speak English. During the heavy monsoon rains and most of the dry season, my mother lets me attend the lessons, smiling as she recalls her French lessons when she was a little girl.

I learn English quickly. It is harder to speak than to understand. It is better this way since I grasp more of what's being said than the Americans realize. All except
giao-sur
who winks at me every time he explains a new phrase.

* * *

Two monsoons pass and the professor still comes to our village every day. In that time many of his comrades have left Vietnam. Not
giao-sur.
He is always here.

Late yesterday, I heard him talking to a man we hadn't seen, a water buffalo-like man he called Captain John's-zone. It frightened me. When I got home, I repeated the meeting in my head, trying to translate as I watched and remembered.

The water buffalo captain was asking
giao-sur
questions without waiting for answers. He spoke a lot with his hands and his cap, which moved back and forth.

When he had a chance to talk, the professor talked faster than normal, telling the captain how what he was doing was good for the Army's mission in Vietnam. But the captain wasn't listening. Eventually, he held up his hand for
giao-sur
to stop.

“That's all fine, Lieutenant,” the water buffalo said, “but it doesn't explain why you stay on here, does it?”

“No, sir,”
giao-sur
said. His voice was the one I use with my elders.

“Then why?”

“Well,” the professor hesitated, “it's … it's the people.”

“Speak up, Lieutenant!”

“It's because of the people, sir.”

The captain seemed puzzled. “What people?”

“The Vietnamese,”
giao-sur
said softly, like he was saying he was sorry. “I like and admire the Vietnamese people.”

The captain waited. After a long pause the professor continued. “I love the language. And the country.”

“For two years?”

“Yes, sir.” The professor's face was red and his voice was warm with anger.

The water buffalo leaned over the professor as if he were going to bite his head. He shouted and barked and said something about me that I couldn't understand.

“Listen to me, Lieutenant, and listen good. Your job is to execute Army policy. Period. Win the hearts and minds of these stupid slopes and stop acting like one of them. Have I made myself clear? Follow orders and do as you're told.”

The captain paused, leaning on the hood of his Jeep. “I hear they call you ‘the professor.' Why is that, lieutenant?”

The professor would not speak.

“My guess it's because of all this teaching you're doing. Well, no more teaching. You read me professor? If I get one more report of your messing with our village programs, I'll cancel your extended tour and send you packing. You got me, Lieutenant? No more professor!”

“Yes, sir.”

“That's all, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

Giao-sur
saluted the captain, turned on his heels and walked slowly away. I didn't like the way the captain spoke to the professor. And I didn't like the way the professor had turned into a scolded child. I would tell him about Trieu Au.

* * *

I am walking back to my village from the rice fields when the professor drives up to meet me. I can't take my eyes off the black and green markings on the sides of the Jeep. The professor told me they are used for camouflage but I believe they're whales in disguise.

“Toi tiec,
I am sorry,” says the professor, his eyes pleading with me to join him. I get in the Jeep.

He drives into the countryside. I have never traveled beyond these fields. The highway passes over kilometers of rice fields laid out in perfect squares, separated by slender green lines of grassy, paddy-dikes and irrigation ditches filled with dirty water. The villages we pass are set far apart. Clustered around them are pockets of tiny huts, marking the hamlets where we have farmed since Trieu Au's time. I am part of one long rice paddy that stretches from China to the Mekong Delta and beyond, from the time of Trieu Au to the days of my great grandchildren.

The professor talks as he drives, like he doesn't remember I'm there.

“It's usually more difficult with the younger ones.” He is talking about his argument with the water buffalo captain. “They're always the least sympathetic or sensitive. For them it's all cut and dried—you extend your tour in Vietnam because you want to get out of the Army early or because you like to hoard the tax-free combat pay you're making or …” He pauses and looks in my direction, “or else you're in love with a Vietnamese princess.”

I don't have any idea, so I stare at the greens and wet browns of the countryside while he goes on.

“Their notions about loyalty are uncivilized. They only know the adolescent loyalty the army pounds into their heads during basic training.” He gestures toward the rice paddies with his large, bony hands. “But I'm talking about a concept of loyalty that pertains to a mission and a people—one that goes beyond all that. Our job here is to make a better life for you.” He waves a finger in my direction. “Just as my grandparents made America a better place for my parents and they made it better for me.”

Suddenly, the professor sees something ahead that makes him pull off to the side of the road. We narrowly miss hitting an old man and his water buffalo as we bounce and slosh into a paddy dike. The professor leans over and pushes my head down, underneath the seat. He's breathing heavily and sweat pours down his cheeks. I hear the sound of large, heavy vehicles moving along the highway. Then a long silence.

“What's that you got there professor?” A sharp, high-pitched voice asks. “You got some jail bait under your seat, my man?”

For the first time since I've known him the professor cannot speak. Then he bends down and gently grabs me by the shoulders, lifting me to a sitting position. Standing in front of the Jeep is a large black soldier, with a broad, toothy smile on his face.

“Oooooo-weee!” the soldier squeals. “The professor done got his self some young putang.” The soldier makes a smacking sound with his lips and slaps the professor across the back.

After a few minutes, the professor turns to me and says, very softly.

“Toi tiec.”

He gets out of the Jeep and walks the black soldier toward the highway. I listen to the distant sound of heavy traffic pounding down the highway. After a long time the professor returns to the Jeep, his face heavy with fear. He does not say a word as he drives me to my village.

By the time we arrive my family is standing in front of the cooking pit. They look frightened. My grandmother gives the professor a cold, harsh look as he helps me out of the Jeep.

“Toi tiec,”
he says to her, removing his hat and half-bowing.

My mother and grandmother squeeze my hand. They send me and my brothers and sisters into our hut, and we hear them shouting at the professor. He keeps repeating “
Toi tiec.”
After a few minutes he gets back into the Jeep and drives away. I can hear him sobbing.

That night my mother puts my brothers and sisters to bed while my grandmother sits beside me by the cooking pit. I answer her questions about this afternoon, and she tells me that the American leader, the water buffalo Captain Johnstone, had come here this morning looking for the professor. Our neighbor told the captain that the professor had taken me for a ride in his Jeep. My grandmother believes me when I say the professor did not hurt me, but she is worried about what the Captain will do to him.

* * *

The American base continues to grow and grow, and soon there is fighting every night. Nothing happens during the day, but the Americans come here every morning to prevent us from meeting together. The soldiers look different now—they carry lots of weapons, they do not smile, and their fingers are pressed to their guns.

No one has seen the professor since the day of our Jeep ride. And then, this afternoon, he appeared, looking very tired. He summoned the head of every family to the square.

When our time comes, my grandmother goes alone. When she returns, my grandmother's face looks like ash. She tells us that there have been nighttime attacks on the American base, and the soldiers think our village is the source of the trouble. Captain Johnstone is convinced that there are Viet Cong in our village. He's ordering the professor to take suspected sympathizers back to the base so they will tell him who the enemy is.

* * *

One by one, hour by hour, day by day, the villagers go and come back. Most return quickly. Our neighbor, Tam Dong, is back in the fields by mid-morning, and his sons are beside him by noon. But my grandmother is kept the entire afternoon and she must return to the base the next morning.

That night, before I fall asleep, I listen to my grandmother telling my mother about her fears. Her voice sounds old and distant as she recounts the shouting, name-calling, and threats she endured for five hours. Even the professor was mean, although she says there were tears in his eyes.