For the Sake of All Living Things (58 page)

In the heart of Kompong Thom, Nang followed the developing situation throughout the Northern Corridor, followed it as closely as any full bird colonel followed enemy movements in his brigade’s area of operation. Come on, he had thought. Come.

Come both of you. Come and fight and kill each other. Come, wound each other. Then face the Rabbit’s wrath. Nang fantasized a thousand scenarios. In the swamps he saw himself spring from a spiderhole, disembowel an NVA trail guide. In the city he saw himself enter the FANK garrison in the southwest, saw himself toying with the rheostat and electrodes that had burned his feet, saw the Republican governor weeping, lying in a pile of shit, begging Nang’s pardon as Nang cranked the rheostat, no, ten rheostats, ten hanging imperialist lackeys losing control and defecating on themselves, saw himself with a long-handled knife slit the stomach of an NVA general tied neck to neck with a Republican, slit the flesh, scoop out the entrails, then fill the cavity with wet human dung. He fantasized an ambush for Met Sar, an execution for Met Sar, tortures for Met Sar. “This is the man who burned my feet,” he saw himself say to his leader. “Watch as I have his feet burned off.” As he thought he had touched his own feet and felt the scars. He had touched his chest and felt the thick lump where his ribs were mending, touched his face and felt the pebbled skin where the napalm had seared him. He stretched his hand open. So many months and still the hand was stiff, the fingers painful. Pain. He could bear it, bear it well, but that did not mean it wasn’t there. Oh, come. Let the battle rage. Let them bear this pain.

After an hour a large young man coughed. He attempted to stifle it, to muffle it, but from between his lips came a burst of air from spasmatic lungs.

“Strugglers!”
Nang screamed.
“Attack!”

Immediately the closest five, two from the young man’s own cell, plus three from an adjacent cell, spun, kicked, punched, jabbed.

“Halt!”

The room froze. “You have done very well today,” Nang said calmly. “Very well. Fighters, when is the enemy most vulnerable?” As he spoke he walked, glided, through the class toward the young man who had coughed.

“When the enemy is close to his own position he is self-confident and careless,” the young man said.

Nang stood before him at two leg lengths. “When else?”

“When two echelons meet on a path of march.”

“The enemy is most vulnerable when...” Nang rebegan the answer. The young man repeated the phrase and his answer.

“When else, Met Han?”

“The enemy is most vulnerable when returning to basecamp.”

“You have learned well. When else?”

“When his point element moves by us without detecting us because of our concealment, the rear elements are careless.”

“Excellent. But if we cough we will not remain concealed.”

“I...I couldn’t stop it.”

“Met Han, I cannot stop your cough. Only you can. You can. You must control yourself. Today you will be my partner.” Nang turned to the class, indicated that they should pair for sparring, three pairs on the floor at a time. Then he returned to Met Han. The young man stood a full hand higher than Nang yet he stood in awe of the Rabbit’s speed, proficiency and power. He had seen the instructor pull his punches to some, smash the ribs or jaw of others, depending on the value he, the instructor, placed on the trainee. Han gulped. He was not certain if he was viewed as a potential yothea or as an exemplary target.

“Begin.” Behind him two pairs descended into full-tilt, no-equipment bouts. Immediately one boy was thrown, pinned and choked, carotid artery blocked so he experienced the wooziness of preunconsciousness. Nang stood light on his feet, one hand relaxed, the other beckoning, wanting Han to throw the first kick or punch. Han shuffled forward, then quickly back. Then forward, feigned a left front punch, skipped back. To him Nang seemed almost asleep. He shuffled forward, raised his rear knee, spun and kicked to Nang’s solar plexus. Nang sidestepped, letting the kick snap into empty air. Immediately Han regrouped, backed off, rushed forward. Behind them the second pair had ceased after each boy had landed painful blows. All eyes were on the instructor. Han snapped a right punch straight out, kicked Nang’s shoulder, then a left punch to Nang’s jaw. He bounced back out of counterpunch range. His entire body was tense. He breathed heavily. To the class, Nang, as he glided in and out of Han’s kick range, said, “It is not enough to learn
how
to strike. You must learn to have the will to strike, to break the enemy.” Han lunged in, threw a weak front left punch followed by a fast roundhouse right kick. Nang, in one motion, parried the kick spinning Han to face away, then lifting and uncoiling a rigid foot side-kicked into Han’s ass, propelling Han across the room into a circle of fighters where he tripped, splatted face first, to the laughter of all the boys until Nang snarled, “Isn’t there even one amongst you who can fight for his life?”

From the door came a new voice. “Yes, Met Nang,” answered a small dark figure. “I can, eh? There will always be someone to keep you from erring. It is the wish of Angkar.”

“There isn’t a damn sonofabitch among em who can fight to save his ass.”

“I don’t know about that, sir,” Sullivan said to the major.

“I do.”

“Seems to me, sir,” Sullivan said in his most diplomatic voice, “some of the field reports show improvement.” The two men, along with Sergeant Huntley and a middle-aged Cambodian driver were on Highway 5 thirty kilometers north of Phnom Penh. The early morning was warm, pleasantly humid. The jeep had passed through the inner and outer defensive rings surrounding the capital and was now bumping along on the rough blacktop which paralleled the west bank of the Tonle Sap River to Kompong Luong where the road split, Highway 5 heading west, Highway 6 junctioning via the ferry crossing and running northeast to Skoun then north through Phum Pa Kham, Rumlong, Baray, Phum Khley and on to Kompong Thom. “FANK waxed ass yesterday at Prey Kry,” Sullivan said.

“That’s not your job, Captain,” the major countered. They rode without speaking for several minutes. The major fidgeted in his seat, twisting, turning, grabbing his M-16 from the snap clip attached to the windshield support, twisting his helmet, searching for an elusive comfortable set. As they approached the southern outskirts of Kompong Luong he threw his right hand into the air. “Christ! Look at that!”

“At what, sir?” Ron Huntley asked snappily.

“Isn’t that supposed to be a perimeter?”

“Where?”

“That!”

“You’d be amazed, sir,” Sullivan said, “at how quickly the families disappear at the first sign of trouble.”

The major let out a loud humph. The driver slowed the vehicle. A dozen young children played amid the FANK troops. To the major the scene was incongruous. The population of Phnom Penh had topped two million—including 1.3 million refugees—and here thirty-five kilometers north in a village which had been the recent point of attack of two NVA battalions, life seemed to be overly normal, overly casual. The major turned hard eyes on three saffron-clad monks standing beneath oiled paper parasols. The monks stared back, smiled, as the jeep passed. The major nudged the Khmer driver. “These good people, hey, Sambo?” The driver turned his head to the major, smiled broadly. As he turned, his hands followed and the jeep veered to the right. Someone shrieked. Quickly the driver corrected. The major heard angry women cackling. The driver’s smile broadened. “God!” grunted the major.

“He doesn’t speak English, sir.” Sullivan leaned forward and in French said, “Monsieur, my officer compliments you and your people on their goodness.” The driver nodded acknowledgment.

The jeep passed through the central marketplace and turned toward the river crossing. Huddled at the intersection was a pride of FANK APCs and scout cars. Each vehicle’s front, sides and rear were decorated with large, bright Black Cobra insignias. Children with buckets of riverwater were washing, polishing, as soldiers flashed toothy smiles at young girls.

“Look at that shit,” the major moaned. “They’ve got more patches than there’re places to put em.”

“This your first trip out of Phnom Penh, sir?”

“Look at those bastards. Little Tigers! They sure as hell aren’t like the ’Bodes in the Delta. Be lucky to keep the Viets out another three months. Hell, throw the Commies some Khmers. That’ll keep em off the ARVN’s ass.”

“First trip inta the country, ay, sir?” Huntley followed Sullivan’s lead.

“First and last. I’m telling Mataxis to send me back to Nha Trang. At least the indigenous there have some military posture. I’m unvolunteering.”

“Well sir”—Huntley nudged Sullivan behind the major’s back—“there’s a ARVN riverine craft at the dock. They’d be headin’ back ta double-P. Ya doan have ta be heah. Captain knows the procedure.”

After the ferry crossing they traveled east then northeast along Highway 6. They passed through thriving villages and through ghost villages where battles had left only heaps of uninhabitable rubble. Every kilometer of roadway was dotted with FANK troops, some in defensive posture, some looking more like boy scouts at a hot-afternoon jamboree without planned activities. The inconsistency appalled Sullivan though he said nothing. Not only were the FANK units uneven in attitude, but even in passing he could see their military issue differed drastically.

The major had left. The degree of his discomfiture with the Khmer countryside puzzled both Huntley and Sullivan who were among the few Americans of the MEDT who consistently ventured away from the capital. “Two tours in Nam Bo”—Huntley laughed after the senior officer had boarded the ARVN craft—“you’d think he’d be used ta this.”

“Ah, his wasn’t two tours in Nam. His was two tours in an air-conditioned American box. Could of been in a Holiday Inn for all he knew.”

“Yup!”

“Shit! Give him some credit. He came this far. Besides, he’s good with requisitions. Should of stayed a supply sergeant. He knows materiel.”

“He’s still a dork.”

Without the major, Sullivan relaxed and the trip, like the day, became enjoyable. The driver spoke sparingly, his French seemingly adequate for nothing deeper than directions and idle chitchat. At two in the afternoon they entered the small, seemingly deserted market town of Skoun, which lay at the southwest corner of a strategic traffic island formed by the junction of Highways 6 and 7, a three-sided island with sides of twenty kilometers. At the north corner was Phum Pa Kham and the road leading to Kompong Thom. In the east corner was the tiny village of Preas and the main road to Kompong Cham. Within the delta, scattered hamlets dotted the level plain of rice paddies. To the northeast lay two hundred square miles of some of Cambodia’s densest and richest plantations and to the northwest, all the way to Kompong Thom, lay a low country of intermittent lakes, swamps and swamp-forests with stretches of reclaimed rice fields. Skoun, in the southwest, sat like a cap on the base of a funnel formed by the Tonle Sap and Mekong rivers, sat like a protective cap shielding the northern approach to Phnom Penh. In the crotch of Highway 6’s dogleg from east to north was the headquarters of FANK’s First Brigade Group.

The American MEDT had been authorized on 8 January 1971. Of sixty men, sixteen were allowed to billet in Cambodia. The MEDT’s first chief was Brigadier General Theodore Mataxis. On 17 April 1971 an additional fifteen U.S. officers were authorized, though the team was not immediately brought up to strength. In June, General Mataxis requested an expansion to two thousand men. Two weeks later the authorization came through channels, for fifty men in Cambodia and sixty-three to remain in South Viet Nam. The team’s primary mission was to ascertain FANK’s equipment needs, to judge if equipment requested was needed, if the requesting unit had personnel trained in its operation and if the equipment would help FANK pursue its military goals in conformity with U.S. policy.”

Sullivan checked his map. He directed the driver to the turnoff for the FANK garrison. “No go there,” the Khmer said in English.

“Ah’ll be dipped in shit,” Huntley blurted. “Mister Kon, you speak mah language.”

“No speak. No go. Bad man.”

“Who’s a bad man?” Sullivan said in French.

“Lieutenant colonel,” Kon said in English.

“You with us,” Huntley said in English. “No trouble you.”

“Monsieur Kon—” Sullivan began, but before he could say another word the driver stopped the vehicle and jumped to the road. “Monsieur, we will take you...”

Kon, his hands together high, bowed. “
Merci. Merci.
I walk. Wife’s brother in Skoun.”

“Geez,” Huntley said. He climbed from the rear seat and settled behind the wheel. “That gives me the creeps.”

A moment later, speeding toward them from the garrison came a red, yellow and black jeep mounted with a 106mm recoilless rifle, the tube painted like a purple and green dragon. In the jeep Sullivan could see six or seven soldiers, two bare chested, one, driving, in a formal white and green uniform. The jeep headed toward them. Huntley slowed, pulled to the edge of the built-up dike road. The jeep aimed square at them. Huntley moved farther, dropping the right wheels over the slanting edge. “God a’mighty...” he screamed at a hundred feet. “Fuck em.” Huntley jerked the wheel left, gunned the gas. The Khmer driver flicked the wheel hard right, left. Huntley’s wheels were stuck over the edge. The Khmers’ jeep veered, skidded, corrected, whisked past, soldiers shouting, laughing, racing out of sight toward town.

“Tonight, Captain”—a tall Khmer lieutenant colonel smiled broadly—“tonight we will eat and drink. Tomorrow you will come with my battalion to Turn Nop.”

Sullivan bowed his head to the map spread before them. Lieutenant Colonel Chhan Samkai pointed to a village about eight kilometers to the northwest. Between the garrison and the village the map indicated almost nothing but swamp forest. Chhan was amiable, his French fluid and elegant. About him his advisors were impeccably dressed, the central room of the headquarters immaculate.

“I would like that very much,” Sullivan said. “Do you suspect resistance in the area?”

“Turn Nop is an evil village.” The colonel retained his smile. “You see, we have had two reliable informers.”